


S+

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles, Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:22:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 20,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27925954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: A Fluffcember collection.Day 13: (xc1 AU) Brighid keeps visiting Mòrag, and Mòrag isn't sure whyDay 14: Poppi watches Mòrag and Brighid brush each other's hairDay 15: Brighid isn't really vibing with the partyDay 16: (xc1 AU) Sharla suspects Brighid may have some biasesDay 17: (zelda AU) Mòrag and Brighid encounter a strange travelerDay 18: the girls hash out some sleeping arrangementsDay 19: Mòrag and Brighid sparDay 20: (xc1 AU) Dunban teaches Mòrag one of his trademark skillsDay 21: Mòrag and Brighid do some laundryDay 22: Mòrag pays her respects to a unique monster... sort ofDay 23: (xc1 AU) Melia learns of Brighid's engagementDay 24: a wedding is in the works
Relationships: Brighid/Mòrag Ladair, Mythra/Nia, Pyra/Nia
Comments: 137
Kudos: 101





	1. sharing a drink

**Author's Note:**

> happy end of 2020!!!!! since i've been pretty lazy and out of it the past couple months, i thought i'd try to do the fluffcember challenge. my current intention is to do moraghid for all 31 days, but if i feel like it i might do other ships as well. these will be very short without any plots because i'm tired
> 
> the full prompt list is [here](https://twitter.com/doop_doop2/status/1306753380182712321)!

Even though the Love Source didn’t turn out the way Poppi had been hoping, Mòrag still confiscates the first batch. Just because. But also as a precaution, because she saw the way Pandoria was eyeing it and Tora was ready to chug it all down himself, and the last thing they need is a very sick Nopon or Pandoria causing mischief amongst the group. So, Mòrag lugs the heavy pot all the way to the room she and Brighid are sharing, where it now sits in a corner.

Very, very inconspicuously.

Its sweet fragrance fills the room even when Mòrag covers it with no less than three towels.

“What a waste of time,” Brighid scoffs. “We went through all that trouble of tracking down that plant, and the only thing Tora and Poppi managed to brew was a fruit smoothie. Surely you can’t condone this pointless dawdling, Lady Mòrag.”

Mòrag doesn’t respond. She stares at that menacing pot of Love Source, eyes narrowed.

“… Lady Mòrag.”

“Of course it would have no effect on Poppi. Her body is artificial. I have no idea what she, or Tora for that matter, were thinking,” Mòrag says, though it sounds more like she’s musing out loud to herself. She kneels beside the pot and pulls the towels off, to be blasted in the face by the brew’s sickeningly sweet scent.

Brighid stands up, already on guard. “What are you doing?”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious, Brighid?”

“Well, I…”

That brief window of hesitance is all the confirmation Mòrag needs; she grabs an empty glass off the nightstand and plunges it into the Love Source. It’s still warm and the liquid is slightly viscous. They ought to call it a fruit soup, rather than a fruit smoothie.

“Please don’t drink strange things, Lady Mòrag.”

“And allow Poppi’s determination and integrity to go to waste? I think not.”

 _What?_ But Brighid can’t say anything else to that, at a complete loss for words and unable to stop Mòrag from taking a sip from the glass. At least— well, she won’t be poisoned or become violently ill, because Dromarch spent an hour scrutinizing that Flutterheart Grass before announcing it should be safe for consumption. And if there was anything wrong with it, Poppi should have been able to detect something off when she drank some.

She waits for an eternity, condensed down to six long seconds, as Mòrag lowers the glass and stares at her.

“It is… too sweet for my liking.”

She exhales.

“Isn’t that a shame?” Brighid stops herself from rolling her eyes. She takes the glass from Mòrag, giving it a cautious sniff. Oh, it really does smell sweet, fruity and fragrant and with a hint of something herbal layered beneath it. In fact, it smells so appetizing, that… maybe…

Mòrag sits down crosslegged beside the pot of Love Source, gesturing for Brighid to join her. Fine, fine, she’s been indulging Mòrag this much already, might as well keep running with it.

“Do you think there really is a such thing as a _love potion?_ ” Mòrag asks, drawing her own flask from her coat to wash down the aftertaste. “I loathe to imagine what the Nopon could do with such a dangerous thing, should they ever find a way to mass manufacture it. People’s feelings shouldn't be toyed with.”

“It’s all fake. Love potions aren't real,” Brighid says. She cautiously takes a small sip. It tastes exactly as it smells.

“Well?”

“It’s fake,” she repeats. But she smiles and reaches for Mòrag’s hand, rubbing her fingers against her glove. “I may not be the best authority on that conclusion, though. I _am_ already in love with you, after all.”

Mòrag raises a brow, offering her flask to Brighid. Her hand is steady, but her voice nearly cracks. “Well said, Brighid.”

Just to be safe, they dump the whole pot of Love Source into the Cloud Sea later.


	2. reassurances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll probably aim to post twice a day until i'm all caught up :V ty for comments, i always appreciate those!

In that ever-growing maze of Hardhaigh Palace’s archives, they find a letter. 

_To my love…_

Then more flowery words, almost enough to make one gag. Brighid doesn’t gag, but she’s clearly rattled and holds the paper like it’s coated in poison. She reads it quietly to herself, lips forming sentences but no sound coming forth, eyes opened to narrow slits. 

Meanwhile, Mòrag sifts through another box and skims through treatises and invoices and all manners of reports. 

“It’s a love letter,” Brighid says after a minute of reading. She leans back against a dusty old table and sighs, shoulders sagging. The paper slightly crumples between her fingers. “There’s no date written, but I would say this is from… about three hundred years ago? There was mention of the annexation of Parvius.”

“Mor Ardain annexed Parvius in the year 3742.” Mòrag pokes her head up from behind a pile of boxes. “However, because the territory of Parvius had long been tacitly beneath the jurisdiction of the Voltis Trading Guild, and Emperor Cadrus III was unwilling to declare war on Nopon, Parvius’ independence and official annexation were contended for no less than six years before—“

“So 3742, give or take a few years.”

“—Yes.”

Just to make sure Mòrag doesn’t feel too bad about being interrupted, Brighid shoots her a quick smile. She enjoys Mòrag’s dull ramblings, really. But when she found a _love letter_ she herself had written, and apparently chose to hide away instead of keeping it in her journal… or did her old self lose the letter? Was it an unfortunate victim of a messy organizational system, to be stuck between piles of paperwork? 

Then, Mòrag straightens up, triumphantly bearing another sheet of parchment. 

“This one is addressed to you, Brighid. I believe this is…” Mòrag skims it before Brighid can stop her. Her brow rises a fraction, then furrows in. “Yes, it’s from that woman your letter was meant for.”

She’d always considered the possibility of past relationships, and what that would mean when she’s unable to recall any of it. Now that one such example is laid bare before her now, Brighid isn’t really quite sure what to think. Her stomach feels unsettled. That’s about it. 

“Would you like to read it?”

“No,” Brighid quickly says. “I… don’t know. I feel obligated to read it, but…” 

Mòrag’s eyes soften. She makes her way between the boxes to lean back on the table beside her, putting the letter aside. 

“Brighid,” she says, fingers brushing against hers. “This changes nothing.”

“I want to know what she was thinking. That old me.” 

“Yes, I understand.” 

“But I’ll never know why these letters were stored here instead of in my journal. What if there are more letters? What if it was an illicit affair? I didn’t think I would be capable of something like that… I don’t know if I should even look into who that woman was. Is it worth the trouble?”

She goes silent as Mòrag lifts her hand up and kisses her knuckles. 

“Experiences will change a person. However, who they are at their core will always remain the same.” 

Mòrag had said that many times before whenever Brighid came to be too contemplative and too forlorn. The words have yet to completely sink in, and maybe they never will, but they’re a comfort. A reassurance. Brighid slides over and their hips touch. 

Yet despite Mòrag’s confidence, Brighid can sense something else wavering in her voice. Ah, so that’s it… 

This time, it’s her turn to take Mòrag’s hand and press her lips to the back of her fingers. 

“No matter the lifetime, I would always fall in love with you, Lady Mòrag. Only you. I’m sure of it.”

“A-Ah.”

“Maybe we would even have an illicit affair, if the circumstances demand it.”

She draws closer, an arm wrapping around Brighid’s waist, the gesture returned with Brighid pressing her palm flat against her chest to feel her heartbeat. They’ll retreat to Mòrag’s room in a minute or two. For now, they’ll take this moment while they can in these dusty archives where Brighid found an ancient love letter. 

“I’m glad,” she murmurs against Brighid’s lips, brushing the letters off the table.


	3. hand-holding

In spite of Mòrag’s insistence otherwise, she doesn’t fare well in cold weather. 

That makes sense. She grew up in an arid wasteland that never dropped beneath temperatures varying between _sweltering hot_ and _uncomfortably warm_ , and Gormott had always been pleasant, only ever brisk at the worst. Ardainians are built for a desert climate. They simply don’t get heatstroke. Mòrag’s resilience to Mor Ardain’s weather while wearing that heavy uniform is a true testament to that. 

On the flipside, Ardainians practically stop moving in colder climates. Like lizards, or Igna.

And Tantal is a freezing hellhole, to put it lightly. 

Mòrag doesn’t say anything, though. She moves like she always does, with her head held high and steady strides. But she’s slower. Just a tiny, tiny bit slower, the difference so subtle that no one except Brighid notices, and Brighid also notices how tightly her jaw is clenched to stop her teeth from chattering. 

“Would you like me to walk closer to you?” Brighid calls out. Being perpetually on fire and all, the snow doesn’t really bother her, but she’s not used to walking through the thick snowdrifts and stays a few paces behind Mòrag. 

“That won’t be necessary,” Mòrag says. 

“But we’re falling behind.”

That’s… true. Mòrag would probably say something about taking up the rear guard, or something. But she doesn’t say anything, because if she opened her mouth again, her teeth would surely chatter. 

Brighid catches up to her now. She nudges her with a knowing glance. “If you’d remove your glove for me, Lady Mòrag?”

She does. She bites down on the glove between her teeth, already succumbing to the bitter cold that immediately attacks that newly exposed skin— but Brighid grasps her hand. An immediate warmth shoots up her arm, thawing whatever had been frozen beneath the poorly insulated layers of her uniform. Mòrag exhales. Her breath condenses in front of her face, but now she no longer clenches her jaw or walks so stiffly.

Their affinity link burns bright. All the snow and ice that had accumulated upon Mòrag’s armor pieces melts away. 

“Is that better?”

“… Yes.” Mòrag squeezes Brighid’s hand and walks closer to her side, their shoulders touching. “Much better. Thank you, Brighid.”

They hold hands until they reach Theosoir, and pointedly ignore everyone’s bemusement when they catch up with the group.


	4. first kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pandoria's partner is intentionally ambiguous here

“Hey, Brighid? Mind if I ask you something? Girl to girl, Blade to Blade?”

“Of course, go ahead.”

“What was your first kiss with Mòrag like?”

Brighid almost sets Pandoria on fire right there, in the middle of a café bustling with patrons, disastrous property damage be damned. There’s plenty of kindling! Wooden chairs and tables! Potted plants hanging from the ceiling! The Gormotti like to wear dry, fluffy clothes perfect for burning! 

Luckily she’s long since mastered the art of self control so nothing bursts into flames. Instead, Brighid sets down her drink and laces her fingers together, shoulders stiff and back straight. Oh, Pandoria. She’s literally flickering with curiosity. 

“… And why do you want to know about that?” 

“Weeell,” Pandoria says, swaying back and forth on her chair. She bites her lower lip and casts her gaze down at the floor, awkwardly giggling . “I’ve kinda been seeing someone sort of on and off, sort of official, but also unofficial, and _definitely_ casual all around. Definitely casual. But we haven’t kissed yet, and I’m waiting for the right opportunity to make my move… or should I wait for the other person to make the move first?! Brighid, what do I dooooo.”

Of course it’s only natural that Pandoria would come to her for this type of advice. Brighid doesn’t feel flattered at all, really, but at the same time, she almost feels obligated to help. Poor Pandoria. There’s nobody else she could ask, huh? Aside from Mòrag, but Brighid is overwhelmed with a rush of fear at the thought of Mòrag trying to recount the story of their first kiss. 

Right. Their first kiss. 

“I was thinking that if I learned about how you and Mòrag sealed the deal, it might give me an idea of what to do with my own partner!” 

“That’s naive thinking, Pandoria,” Brighid says. Then, she sighs. “Don’t look so downcast. Everyone approaches these kinds of things at their own pace. My relationship with Lady Mòrag is a tough standard to strive toward, you know; if you’ll excuse my boasting.”

“Was Mòrag bad at kissing? What if I’m bad at it too?!”

“Excuse me?! Lady Mòrag wasn’t—… she was just inexperienced.” 

“Wow, so she does have a weak spot after all…”

“She’s better at it now,” Brighid firmly says. “Much, much better.”

“So… it’s more about the practice than the first try.”

“What? That’s not what I was saying.”

Pandoria wraps her tail around her wrist, rubbing at the glass bulb with her thumb as she thinks about it. Or she’s thinking about something else altogether, heedless of whatever Brighid just said. Probably the latter. 

“Okay, but, who made the first move?” Pandoria asks. “You don’t mind answering that much, right?”

She does mind, but Pandoria’s earnestness is too sincere for Brighid to be annoyed enough to get up and leave. A little annoyed, only a little. 

“… Lady Mòrag did,” Brighid says after a long pause of consideration. She closes her eyes (no, they were already closed) and tilts her face toward the ceiling, reminiscing. “We were sitting together in her personal quarters at dusk. I suppose there had always been an unsaid tension between us before that day. I was… afraid, that she wouldn’t feel the same… it’s strange to imagine that she likely had similar thoughts the entire time. What had we been doing for so long, dancing around each other’s feelings? Shamefully oblivious, unwilling to breach that chasm of professional distance between us…”

“Then she shoved you against a wall and you guys made out, right?” 

“—Certainly not!” 

“Sorry, sorry, your story was starting to drag!” Pandoria suddenly stands, nearly knocking her chair over. She splays her hands flat on the table and grins. “That was helpful, though. I can’t keep being wishy washy and waiting around… I think I’m too darn impatient to keep pining like that. If I keep bottling it up I might explode. So… thanks, Brighid! I’m gonna go look for them right now and get that kiss!” 

And Brighid is left alone at the table, wondering what just happened. She wraps her hands around her half-finished drink and mutters under her breath. 

“She shoved me against the _bed_ , thank you very much.”


	5. (xc1 AU) reunited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> already starting to veer a bit from the fluff oops
> 
> some context to know for this au that may or may not be important:
> 
> \- Brighid is a High Entia. she is part of Melia's personal escort of knights, and was the only one to survive when the five of them shielded Melia from the Telethia in Makna Forest.  
> \- Mòrag is a Homs from Colony 9. she was on friendly terms with Dunban but never got that close because she didn't like Mumkhar, but she was good friends with Fiora (and Shulk and Reyn, by extension). she joined the party with Dunban after the Ether Mine.  
> \- Mòrag and Brighid don't hit it off immediately because Brighid is so focused on her duty to Melia and Mòrag is all caught up in the Colony 9 drama surrounding what happened to Fiora. they gay tho  
> \- Riki likes Mòrag but always respects Brighid's personal space.

They’ve stopped running for now. And for now, the Mechon have stopped pursuing them. Hopefully. Mòrag peers out from behind the sloped wall they’ve taken cover behind and slowly exhales through her teeth. _Coast is clear_ , she signals with a wave of her wrist, allowing herself to lean back and catch her breath.

Brighid stands up not even a few seconds later. Mòrag grabs her wrist.

“Let me go,” Brighid sharply says, trying to pull herself away. “I need to find Lady Melia.”

“With the way you are now? Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll be of absolutely no use to her with your leg in that condition.”

They both turn their attention to the dripping gash running down Brighid’s leg, the skirt of her dress cut by one of the Mechons’ blades. They were outnumbered, nothing could be done about that. The pain only seems to just register with Brighid, now that Mòrag has helpfully pointed it out (or the adrenaline from being chased by a swarm of Mechon has finally worn off). Her knee folds and Mòrag catches her with an arm around her waist— Brighid shoves her off, nearly snarling.

“You of all people should know better than to stand in my way.”

“Melia is alive.”

“And how would you know that?!”

“I don’t.” Mòrag pulls her back down to the ground, glaring when Brighid tries to push her off again. She carefully tears away a strip of fabric from her own coat, the movement somewhat clumsy and awkward when she’s still trying to keep Brighid down. “But I am willing to lie, if it would mean stopping you from doing something stupidly rash.”

Brighid says nothing. She allows Mòrag to tend to her wound, at least. If Melia were to see her in such a state, she would immediately try to use a Healing Gift upon her— but Brighid would never allow that, never allow the crown princess to share her precious ether with anyone else, no matter how much Melia may insist that she only means to help. Sharla would be more helpful. Or even Shulk, with his rudimentary grasp on Etherology.

Not the Nopon. She’d rather not be healed by Riki’s spit.

Mòrag doesn’t have any particularly noteworthy talents in healing, like Reyn. But what she lacks in technical skill, she makes up for with common sense and sharp wits (which Reyn lacks). She uses water from her own flask to rinse the wound off and securely ties the makeshift bandage to staunch the bleeding. If Brighid were to be stranded with anyone from their traveling troupe of Homs (and one Nopon), she supposes Mòrag would be one of her better options.

Brighid realizes this is the first time she’s been separated from Melia’s side, ever since they had left Alcamoth. 

It’s very, very disconcerting. She quashes that thought away.

“I understand your worries,” Mòrag says, seeing the way Brighid frowns. “Regrouping with the others should be our utmost priority right now.”

“You know, I could always fly away and leave you here. A wounded leg isn’t going to stop me.”

“Would you, though?”

They stare each other down. Brighid’s feathers ruffle— she’d never quite noticed how sharp Mòrag’s eyes were. Why notice that now? Such an unimportant detail, and yet she completely loses the idea of flying away on her own to look for Melia.

Brighid relents and sinks back against the wall. There’s an overhanging ledge that juts out, hiding them. Mòrag picked a good spot to rest. They're somewhere around the thumb of the Fallen Arm, if Brighid had to guess.

* * *

There’s only a little bit left in Mòrag’s flask after she had rinsed off Brighid’s wound. She offers it to Brighid without hesitation.

“Here. Take my water.”

Brighid scoffs. “Keep your chivalry. Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

Mòrag’s expression doesn’t change, but her skin does slightly flush when Brighid conjures an orb of water that spins in front of her face. Brighid reaches for her flask, pleased when Mòrag readily hands it over, and carefully siphons some of the liquid ether into it. It doesn’t taste nearly as refreshing as proper freshwater, but at least they won’t die of dehydration out here. What a foolish Homs, to forget what Brighid is capable of. Maybe she had landed on her head.

But.

“… It was thoughtful of you to offer, though.”

Mòrag pulls out blades of grass between her fingers. “At times, I can be unfortunately short-sighted as well.”

The moment is ruined. “What are you implying about me, Mòrag?”

“Haven’t you realized? This is the first time we’re able to have a proper conversation between ourselves.” Mòrag takes a swig from the flask. “Your dedication to Lady Melia is admirable, don’t get me wrong. One could only wish to achieve such unwavering resolve.”

It’s a heavy, painful weight to bear. When Melia looks at her, Brighid fears she only thinks of the four knights who perished in Makna Forest. The knights who were meant to protect Melia, and the knights Brighid was meant to lead. Their deaths lie upon no one but herself. Surely anyone could garner that much, even if Melia hasn’t spoken of it often and Brighid speaks of it even less.

Such matters wouldn’t concern Homs. But they’ve become more involved and intwined with these travelers than Brighid had intended. Protecting Melia alone has been… difficult. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t grateful for the others’ support as well.

Mòrag shouldn’t praise her for that. Pathetic.

“… But I could tell it has taken a great toll on you,” Mòrag continues, when Brighid has fallen into silence. She hesitantly places a hand over Brighid’s. Brighid doesn’t move away. “This battle is for all of us to partake in. Melia is now a part of that battle, whether you like it or not.”

Though they’d fought together, and eaten together, and slept beside each other, they’re all still strangers to her. Brighid finally lifts her head to look directly at Mòrag’s face. There are shadows beneath her eyes and her hair is askew, freed from its ties and a couple strands stuck to chapped lips. Some oil from a Mechon had splashed across her neck, and her cheek is marred by a dark smudge. Without thinking twice about it, Brighid wipes at the smudge with her thumb, only succeeding in smearing it down to her chin.

Mòrag’s smile is faint, but warm.

Her leg hurts more than she thought. Maybe… a few more minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt. Melia must be alive and well. She must be.

“You’re very… interesting, Mòrag,” Brighid says, her hand lingering by her face. It could have been her imagination, but she swears Mòrag had leaned into the touch. “Maybe spending some time with you would be worthwhile after all.”

She’s rather attractive, beneath all the grime and sweat.

* * *

They encounter Melia, with Dunban and Riki in tow, just as the sun is setting low on the horizon. Riki swerves right around Brighid (which suits her just fine) to greet Mòrag, chattering excitedly, as she and Dunban greet each other with not much more than a pleased nod and a grasp to the other’s elbow. It’s a rather underwhelming reunion. The only one unrestrained from any formalities or dignity is Riki, who bounces in circles.

“Your leg,” Melia starts, noticing Brighid’s torn skirt and the makeshift bandage job. “How did this happen? Answer me, Brighid.”

“Apologies, Lady Melia. I was careless around some Mechon.” She slightly bows at the waist. “Mòrag had arrived just in time to assist me.”

“Don’t _apologize_. Were you in such a great panic from my absence that you neglected to consider your surroundings more carefully?”

Ah, Melia is upset. Of course she’d be. After losing so many around her, the fear of death must hang heavy like a miasma. Brighid bites back another apology, knowing that would only agitate Melia even more.

Dunban and Mòrag walk ahead of them, completely occupied by their own conversation. The missing strip from Mòrag’s coat is even more noticeable from here. What would they be talking about? Their next course of action? Guesses as to where the others could be? Finding a place to build camp for the night before they resume the search tomorrow?

It’s been a very long day.

“Mòrag managed to calm me down, if you can believe it.”

Melia quietly considers this. Her next words are considerably less severe. “… I am glad to hear that. Please do remember to take care of yourself, however.”

Brighid continues to stare at Mòrag’s back.


	6. sunset/sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i enjoy morag being embarrassingly corny more than i probably should

Once again, the day comes to a close, the Cloud Sea awash in twilight and brilliant hues of a burning flame, magnificent and tranquil and—

“Okay, I’ll be honest. I don’t get what’s the big deal about sunsets.”

—and so on and so forth. Neither Mòrag nor Brighid are quite sure why Mythra had decided to follow them when they hiked up to a spot along Gormotti’s shoulder. They’re also not sure why they didn’t tell her to leave them be, because this _was_ originally meant to be a private excursion to take a break from the usual rabble. Mythra tagging along kind of defeats that purpose.

No, wait, Mòrag just didn’t want to be rude. Of course.

“It’s the same thing over and over again every single day, right?” Mythra says. She shifts her weight to one leg and puts a hand on her hip. “Nothing special about it. It looks nice, but I don’t know why you bothered coming all the way up here to see it.”

“I'm not surprised someone like you wouldn't know how to appreciate a sunset,” Brighid says.

“Ex _cuse me?_ ”

Mòrag briefly closes her eyes. The scene had been set: a flat outcropping perfect to sit and take in the view, no monsters or wild beasts anywhere in sight, Brighid sitting by her side, and… Mythra. Here with them, inexplicably. So much for a lovely evening with only Brighid and a bottle of wine for company. But, she sees a valuable teaching opportunity, and so she addresses Mythra.

“Appreciation comes in quality, not quantity,” she says. “As unremarkable as a sunset may be, such things could never be taken for granted. The world is full of such wonders.”

“Hey, don’t try to get all abstract at me.”

“Then, how about this? I see Brighid each and every day, yet my appreciation for her beauty has not diminished in the slightest over the years. Does that put things into perspective?”

That actually shuts Mythra up. Brighid too, apparently; she covers her face with her hands (surely not out of embarrassment?) and mutters something unintelligible when Mòrag pats her shoulder in concern. She can’t cover her face _now_ , the sun is grazing against the horizon now. Look, Brighid. Such a sight to behold. Mòrag turns her head between Brighid and Mythra, brows pushed together.

“… Was that too blunt?”

“Yeah, I’ll say!” Mythra loudly says. “Ugh. If you didn’t want me to be a third wheel you could’ve just said so. I’m out of here. See you guys later, or whatever.”

“That wasn’t what I— ah, she’s leaving.”

The noises of Mythra stomping and shoving her way back through the trees soon fades in the distance.

“Whatever happened to being discreet?” Brighid asks, finally lowering her hands from her face. Her expression is unreadable, but at least she doesn’t seem upset. Or too embarrassed.

The sun is a semicircle dipping into the Cloud Sea now. An orange slice. A blazing orange slice. So maybe Mythra had something of a point when she implied coming all the way up here for a sunset wasn't worth the effort, but that was only part of it. They would never take such simple things for granted; such as these moments, when they're allowed a lack of discretion and a lack of formalities. A sunset on its own is hardly worth the fanfare. A sunset in good company, on the other hand, is a wonderful thing.

Mòrag’s oblivious smile shifts into something that could almost be called smug. She wraps an arm around Brighid’s shoulders, admiring the view.

“It was a fine tactic to earn some privacy without hurting Mythra’s feelings, was it not?”

Brighid opens her mouth in surprise, then laughs, resting her head on her shoulder. “How artful of you, Lady Mòrag.”


	7. a journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm falling further and further behind pls send help

No one asked, but Pandoria and Zeke decide it’s time for show and tell anyway. It’s not the first time. They like talking, a lot, especially when it comes to telling stories and showing off various knick-knacks and trinkets they picked up during their travels: a broken wood carving from Pom Village, a ratty old shawl from Kannina, a handful of completely ordinary rocks from Yukrit, and more useless junk that they very likely picked up off the ground.

The two of them may be absolute clowns, but they sure know how to captivate an audience.

That evening, as everyone’s finally turning in for the night and Zeke has fallen asleep over a table (the owner of the restaurant, a very annoyed Nopon, tries to prod him awake with a broomstick), Mòrag asks Brighid, “Have you any particular thoughts about their stories?”

A raised brow. “Don’t tell me you actually listened to their ranting. They lost me the moment Pandoria tried to juggle some silverware.”

They met a street performer in Chilsain who juggled torches, and apparently Zeke had gotten too close and his clothes caught on fire. Pandoria was just reenacting that moment, but all she succeeded in doing was flinging a spoon directly at Mythra’s forehead. That might have been the highlight of the evening.

Still, klutzy mishaps and near-fatal accidents notwithstanding, it just sounded like… a lot of fun.

“Those two have been to just about every country and city in Alrest, I’d wager,” Mòrag says. “As eccentric as they are, you can’t deny they’re very well-traveled.”

Brighid pauses, a hand on the doorknob to their room. “… Are you _jealous_ , Lady Mòrag?”

Mòrag ushers Brighid inside and shuts the door behind them. No one else was in the hall or within earshot, but.

“I haven’t given much thought to the idea of traveling before. Or at all, really.”

“You can’t call what Pandoria and Zeke did _traveling_.”

“No, of course not,” Mòrag says, even though she doesn’t sound convinced. “But the notion of a self-reflective journey, immersing oneself in the local culture and broadening the mind… I think I’d like to experience that for myself, one day.”

Brighid grabs Mòrag’s face. She stares at her Driver very, very seriously, all without opening her eyes, only to buy herself some time to think of a proper response to that. Lady Mòrag wants to _travel?_ Like some sort of— some sort of vagabond? What’s all that nonsense about immersion, anyway? She knew Mòrag had been gradually lowering her walls ever since they’d decided to tag along with Pyra and Mythra on their quest to reach Elysium, but this is just getting ridiculous.

“We’re already traveling,” Brighid finally says, smiling sweetly and letting go of Mòrag’s face. “Aren’t we? We even got to sightsee a bit in Fonsa Myma.”

“But we were there for business to meet with Queen Raqura. Dromarch was there to observe. And I…” Mòrag brings her fingertips up to where Brighid’s palms had been pressing against her cheeks. “I had imagined it to be just the two of us. Purely for leisure.”

She wants to grab Mòrag’s face again, but she restrains herself. Mòrag is basically saying she wants to go on vacation. Mòrag doesn’t do that. Mòrag hates taking vacations. What in the name of the Architect is even happening?

“We certainly wouldn't 'rough it' as Zeke and Pandoria had been doing,” Mòrag says. “We’d stay only in the finest hotels and eat three square meals a day. Without an itinerary, however— perhaps we could use more spontaneity in our lives. Am I getting ahead of myself, Brighid?”

“Not at all,” Brighid says, bewildered.

Truthfully, she had listened in on Pandoria and Zeke’s stories as well. They had described a harrowing sequence of events in which they had accidentally been mistaken for local bandits, been chased through the maze-like back alleys of Mantaal, took refuge inside two barrels that reeked of fish, then… well, Brighid had tuned them out so she didn’t hear how that tale ended, but if that somehow inspires Mòrag to take Brighid on a relaxing vacation then. Then that’s still weird all around, but maybe not a terrible thing.

A leisurely journey with Lady Mòrag does sound fun. Especially if she promises to book the best hotels each country has to offer.

“No, no… we can make our plans later,” Mòrag says, moving to the other side of the room to begin her nightly routine of dressing down. “For now, let us focus on the tasks at hand.”

Oh, right. The world still needs to be saved, and all that. Brighid chuckles and goes to help Mòrag remove her armor.

“Roger that, Lady Mòrag.”


	8. artwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes i worry i'm writing mòrag being too silly or too corny but then i remember she said "life is a battlefield" while attempting to cook a fish

“Are you almost done yet?”

“Not quite…”

“My shoulders are getting stiff.”

“Please hold still just for a while longer.” 

When Mòrag had asked Brighid if she would pose for a painting, this isn’t quite what Brighid had in mind. Her imagination may have wandered off just a bit too much, veering into some improbable fantasy of a warm fire in the hearth and silk bedsheets that coyly slide off her naked figure, bared for Lady Mòrag to capture in an immortalized piece of artwork that would only be their secret alone—

She stifles a yawn. Mòrag pokes her head out from behind the large canvas, squinting as if to make sure Brighid didn’t move just now. 

Brighid stopped counting the minutes a while ago, but it’s had to have been at least an hour. An hour! And she’s still fully clothed, too! Absolutely outrageous! 

Mòrag’s intense concentration is normally a very attractive feature to behold, but Brighid’s shoulders really are getting stiff. If she tries to roll them, Mòrag will probably ask her to stay still again. So that’s not very fun. Once again, Brighid has to speak up. “Lady Mòrag, if I could suggest taking a break. You haven’t put down your brush ever since we started; surely your hand is sore by now?”

“Hardly,” Mòrag says, still squinting at her. She squints at the canvas. Then she squints at Brighid again. The canvas. Brighid. The canvas. Brighid. 

She can’t take it anymore. Brighid ignores Mòrag’s startled protests and stands up, stretching her arms and flexing her joints before striding over. Despite Mòrag’s desperate attempts to cover up the canvas, Brighid gently pushes her aside to check on her progress. 

The furniture that had been positioned around her are impeccably rendered. The brushstrokes— exquisite. The lighting— … also exquisite. 

It looks nice. 

Except for the fact that Brighid herself, sitting at the forefront, isn’t much more than a rough sketch. 

“Brighid! You aren’t meant to look yet—!” 

“You didn’t even draw my face!” 

“How could I?” Mòrag clutches her paintbrush close to her chest. She’s getting blue all over her smock, but that’s unimportant. “Capturing your essence is not as easy as one would assume! Your eyes were especially difficult to draw.” 

Brighid opens her mouth, and closes it. 

“Lady Mòrag, my eyes are closed.”

“Yes, my point exactly.”

“Hmm.”

That does it. She gently pries the brush out of Mòrag’s hand and reaches around her waist to untie her smock. New hobbies are all fine and fun, but they definitely need to take a break. Or at least swap their roles— she wouldn’t mind taking a shot at painting, maybe painting Mòrag’s portrait, maybe testing how many articles of clothing she can remove before it’s no longer considered tasteful. 

That sounds much more fun. She’ll have to bring it up over lunch; for now, it’s only a matter of convincing Mòrag to step away from her unfinished portrait.


	9. recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always thought it looked so stupid in-game when a driver is toppled or launched and their blade just stands there staring at them. in xc1, teammates can help each other when they're toppled or dazed, so why can't blades help their drivers like that... oh well, at least it gives me shitpost material!!
> 
> (ya i know about debuff cancel which is great and all but my point still stands)

“Hey!” Zeke marches over, shoving his way through dense underbrush with broad sweeps of his arms. One of those arms outstretches to point directly at them once he’s succeeded in not tripping over a bush. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you two!” 

Their camp is just out of earshot; seems that Zeke deliberately waited for them to head down to the lakeshore (when Mòrag volunteered to refill everyone’s canteens, and Brighid obligingly tagged along) before confronting them. Very unsubtle. Brighid pretends she neither sees nor hears him. Mòrag, however, can’t shake off her reflex to do the polite thing and answer, even though all her gut instincts tell her she should just ignore him.

“Is something the matter?” 

Pandoria pops out from behind him. Wait, they didn’t even notice her— 

“Princey’s gotten all worked up over what happened in that battle against the Ancient Deinos earlier today,” she says. Zeke affirms this with a vigorous nod, feet squared and fists planted on his hips. “At first I thought it was ‘cuz you guys got the last hit in before he could show off his finishing move. Or because he still wants Mòrag to teach him how to do that fancy maneuver with the flames.” 

“Forget about those! For now. There’s a more pressing issue at hand here!” 

Silence. The four of them stare at each other. A Krabble waddles by, leaving a trail in the sand as it drags its shell along. 

Zeke clears his throat. “You remember when that Deinos did that tail swipe thingy and sent us all toppling? Well, while I was lying on the ground, with the sun in my eye and death a mere stomp away, thinking of all the things I’ve yet to do and yet to say… augh! My life flashed before my very eyes! I thought for sure that I was a dead man at that moment. How crazy is that?” 

“You’re getting off track!” Pandoria loudly whispers to him. “The toppling, the toppling!” 

“ _Ahem_ — right!” Zeke swings his arm to point at Mòrag and Brighid. Again. “I saw Brighid help Mòrag recover and get up when she was toppled!” 

Pandoria punctuates this with a scandalized gasp, hands flying to her mouth. 

“… Of course she helped me up,” Mòrag says, too confused now to be annoyed. Brighid has resumed filling the canteens with water, just to pretend that she’s no longer a part of the conversation. “Were you… expecting her to leave me there?”

Zeke gestures wildly. “Ain’t that part of the rules?!” 

“Not… that I’m aware of?”

Pandoria and Zeke spin on their heels in perfect sync to huddle together with their backs turned, whispering and muttering to each other. Before Mòrag can even get another word in, they spin right back around. 

“But Pandoria never helps _me_ up when I get toppled. Or launched.” 

“I dunno.” Pandoria shrugs. “I always figured he could get up himself.”

“This sounds like a you problem,” Brighid says, unable to hold herself back any longer, “which absolutely doesn’t involve us. Maybe you should try bothering the others about this instead.”

“Pandy! We’ve got to tell Rex and Mythra about this!!” Zeke’s eye lights up and he puts a fist to his palm. “Mythra usually just stands there and yells at Rex to get up, doesn’t she?”

“Ooh, yeah. I bet Rex is gonna love this new info!” 

They run off just as quickly as they had arrived, shouting all the way until their voices are lost among the trees. Mòrag realizes she’d been holding a half-empty canteen this entire time and kneels back down to resume refilling it. At the very least, she can say that their days are never boring or idle. 

“Other Drivers and Blades can be so… unintuitive,” Brighid says. She stands over Mòrag, waiting for her to finish up. “Surely the bar can’t be _that_ low.”

“You’d be surprised. Now, if you would be so kind as to help me up?” Mòrag smiles up at her, extending a hand.


	10. dreams (pyra/nia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mixing it up a bit for day 10 just to keep things fresh for myself! i've written mythra/nia before, but not pyra/nia, so i figured it's about time i give it a shot. no humor in this one bc i couldn't think of any punchline
> 
> everything i write that includes pyra somehow ends up vaguely depressing one way or another oops

Dromarch is awake when Pyra returns to the waning light of the campfire’s embers, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. He slowly blinks and slightly tilts his head toward Nia, curled up against his side and fast asleep. Pyra nods back to him and carefully tiptoes around any dry leaves that might crunch beneath her soles.

Nia twitches. Pyra freezes. She can’t help but watch on, curious, as Nia continues to shift around like she’s trying to move against invisible ropes.

“Nothing to worry about,” Dromarch quietly rumbles. “My Lady has the occasional habit of moving in her sleep.”

“Oh. I see.” Pyra eases herself down to sit cross-legged beside them, close enough that one of Nia’s feet nearly kicks her. Dromarch seems completely unperturbed, probably used to it, even as Nia grasps a handful of his fur for a second. She makes a small noise from the back of her throat and pushes herself more closely against Dromarch.

“Sometimes she will tell me about her dreams,” Dromarch says. “She often dreamt of being chased before we met you. Lately, however, it seems she is the one doing the chasing.”

A small smile flutters across Pyra’s face. “Really? Does she ever tell you what she’s chasing?”

“Ah, sometimes a Nopon, other times a Bunnit… at times, both…” Dromarch swipes a paw across his face. It’s a very cat-like gesture, at odds with the dog-like way Nia runs in her sleep.

“They sound like fun dreams,” Pyra softly chuckles.

“Do you…?” Dromarch pauses the question midway, only just realizing that he may have spoken out of turn, but Pyra doesn’t mind. She strokes his fur, her eyes never leaving Nia.

“I don’t dream when I sleep, no. I’m not sure why. It’s possible that I do dream but I’m never able to remember any of it— it’s hard to say. Mythra doesn't know much about it, either.” Pyra doesn’t bother concealing her fondness as she runs her fingertips along the edges of Nia's ears, her touch as light as feathers. Once she's sure Nia won't awaken, she carefully nudges her aside to lay with her head resting against Dromarch’s chest. She can hear the pulse of his ether. 

"Maybe it's an Aegis thing," she says, trying to sound light-hearted.

“If I had stirred any unpleasant feelings…”

“It's alright, Dromarch. Missing out on things like that never really bothered me.” Pyra drapes an arm over Nia and reaches for the blanket that had been kicked aside. Sensing this new source of warmth, Nia burrows in close against Pyra until she’s breathing right down her neck. It’s not the most comfortable position, but Pyra doesn’t dare move away.

“I think… imagining what sort of fun things Nia is dreaming about is plenty enough to satisfy my curiosity,” Pyra says. Nia is still breathing down her neck. “Oh. She stopped moving.”

“Perhaps she caught what she was chasing? I wonder what it could have been this time.”

“Mmhm, I wonder…” Pyra closes her eyes. Even without the intrinsic bond of a Driver and Blade, she imagines a tether that winds around them to stave off the cold. Nia is strange. Nia is secretive. And yet she's somehow an open book, all her words jumbled up into a near-indecipherable mess that culminates into a sharp tongue and guarded hesitance. Someone like that would never believe in Elysium, but here they are, throwing in all their bets upon each other. For now, closing the distance like this will suffice. At least until Pyra learns to translate the language of her book.

“Rest well, Lady Pyra.”

“You too, Dromarch.” And to Nia, she whispers: “Good night, Nia.”


	11. swimming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brighid thirsty

Brighid never really liked Uraya. 

Not for political reasons— the tension between Uraya and Mor Ardain has eased somewhat, anyway, what with all these bigger threats looming over their heads. Queen Raqura had softened her stance after witnessing Niall’s valiant attempt to blow himself up, too. The Urayans can be cantankerous and crude, but they’re a reasonable people; the local cuisine isn’t half bad, either. 

Brighid never really liked Uraya because of how goddamn damp it is. 

“There it is,” Mòrag says, pointing down. The water is clear enough that they can see to the bottom. A small, box-shaped thing is partially buried in the sediment: the lost toy. An Urayan child at the village wouldn’t stop crying about it, and of course Mòrag couldn’t leave it be. She removes her cap and hands it to Brighid. “Wait here.” 

“You’re going to _dive_ for it?” 

“We didn’t bring any fishing equipment.” Mòrag says, sitting down on a relatively flat rock to begin undoing the clasps of her greaves. “I underestimated just how deep the water would be. Nothing to worry about, I’m a perfectly capable swimmer.” 

“You know, we could go back to village and have one of the mercenaries handle this.”

“What sort of example would we be setting?” Mòrag sets her armor pieces aside and starts on shedding the first layer of her uniform. “No task is too large nor too small for the Special Inquisitor.”

“Of course not,” Brighid sighs, and she presses a kiss to her forehead and helps fold her coat. 

Once Mòrag is down to her underclothes, she wades into the water and dives down. Brighid crouches to watch Mòrag swim to the bottom. The way she moves through the water with powerful strokes and strong kicks… ahh. Perfect form. She silently says thanks to no one in particular for the pool's crystal clear transparency.

Experimentally, she dips a hand in, and watches the water steam and bubble around her wrist. A part of her idly contemplates the possibility of boiling this entire pool— when Mòrag gets out of it, of course.

Unless the water is too cold for Lady Mòrag?

She probably wouldn’t mind being boiled a little, right?

A minute doesn’t even pass before Mòrag is resurfacing with the toy in hand. Brighid dusts off her knees and straightens up to her full height. Water really doesn’t suit her, but when it’s dripping off the bridge of Mòrag’s nose and cascading down her skin in delicate rivulets, nicely highlighting her bare muscles, a rare treat to behold during the daytime— 

“Brighid?” Mòrag waves a hand in front of her. “Will you dry me off? I'd like to get dressed, now.” 

“Oh— of course.”

Uraya’s not so bad, Brighid decides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brighid gives uraya a 7.8/10, too much water


	12. music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my original plan was to have moraghid beat zeke over the head with some bagpipes but i enjoy zeke and nia yelling at each other too much

After hundreds of hours of vocal lessons, and looks lessons, and soul lessons (whatever soul lessons even are) it’s finally over. Almost. Not quite. Being a pop star is intense business. Mòrag begins to suspect that this may be even more of a grueling trial than her lifetime of military conditioning.

Learning how to stab things is very different from singing for an audience. Stabbing things is easier. 

Stabbing things may also be easier than composing music, as all of them soon learn. Ursula’s next task is to compose an original song for her last minute soft debut the following morning, and of course they wouldn’t let her suffer through this alone. So, they gather around the biggest table at Rumbletum Canteen, armed with pens and paper and snacks to keep them awake through the night. 

“Done! The Zekenator has achieved… lyrical perfection! Read it and weep!” Zeke swipes his pen with a dramatic flourish and rises out of his seat. A bit of ink splatters on Nia, who had the unfortunate luck to end up sitting beside him. Nia snatches up his paper and squints at it, narrowing her eyes until barely a sliver of yellow can be seen. 

“ _Wake me up, from this darkness, everlasting darkness, moonlight darkness, obsidian darkness_ — what the hell is this garbage, Shellhead?” 

While Zeke launches into a heated argument with Nia about the art of obscure genres that no one’s ever heard of, featuring Pandoria’s mostly-unhelpful interjections, the others turn back to their work. Rex hasn’t written more than a couple lines, tongue stuck out in concentration and ink getting all over his hair when he doesn’t realize he’s scratching his head with the wrong side of his pen. A pile of crumpled paper balls litters the ground around Mythra’s feet. Dromarch sleeps through all the noise under the table. Poppi, Tora, and Ursula had ended up practicing their handwriting instead of brainstorming, for some reason. 

Brighid just wants to go to bed. Knowing the Nopon acting as Ursula’s manager, he’ll probably scrap whatever they come up with and use his own song, anyway. Or edit it until it’s not even recognizable as their own original work.

“Do you think Ursula’s performance could incorporate a Steamwork Organ, Brighid?”

Brighid lays a hand over Mòrag’s, gazes at her, and smiles. She doesn’t want to answer that question.

“ _Gleaming darkness, roaring darkness, storm of darkness—_ “

“Quit making fun of me, fuzzy ears!”

“You wrote this crap yourself, you idiot! I’m just reading off the paper!” 

Looks like Ursula and Poppi are having fun with their writing exercises, at least. Tora had waddled off to get another plate of mushrooms and Mythra is now yelling at Zeke to be quiet, because she can’t concentrate like this, her creative vibes are being completely ruined, what a pain in the ass, etc.

Somehow, Mòrag tunes it all out. She taps her pen against her chin and tries again. “A Steamwork Organ would provide a rich accompaniment to the music.”

“Lady Mòrag.” Brighid hesitates. “Ardainian music is an… _acquired taste_. I think Ursula’s song should stick to the Torigonda, just to be safe.”

“No Steel Bagpipes either, then?”

“Probably not.” 

Mòrag leans back in her seat and crosses her arms over her chest. “Hmph. Much of Alrest is ignorant of the wondrous music Mor Ardain has to offer, I see. A shame, but I suppose it can’t be helped.”

“Well, what about the song itself?” Brighid asks, quick to change the topic before Mòrag can launch into a spiel about the history of Ardainian music and everything else that the non-Ardainian population of Alrest is missing out on. She tries to placate Mòrag with a gentle pat to her arm. “Have you come up with any lyrics?” 

Mòrag chews on her lip in thought, shoulders relaxing. “Somehow, everything I write ends up being about you—“

“Oh…”

“—or the glory of Mor Ardain.”

“Oh.”

“I have enough sense to know that Ursula can’t possibly sing about either of those. Ah, I suppose I’m at an impasse, then. I’ve got no more ideas left in me,” Mòrag says. She stretches, stifling a yawn, and lazily turns her head to watch Mythra hurl her crumpled paper scraps at Zeke’s head. Nia and Pandoria scramble to catch them as they bounce off his face. 

The night isn’t getting any younger. Forsaking their usual bedtimes and curfew really doesn’t seem worth the trouble, come to think of it. So what if Ursula’s manager gets upset? Ursula’s initial song would work perfectly fine, everyone likes the way she sings and plays her Torigonda. Just— slap in some new lyrics about hope and friendship, Rex can probably come up with something before the sun comes up.

“It seems as though everyone has the situation under control. Would you like to turn in for the night, Brighid?”

“Yes. Please.” Brighid, more than relieved, takes Mòrag’s hand. The two of them head back to the inn, Mòrag humming an aimless tune under her breath.


	13. (xc1 AU) dessert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the return of the xc1 au! this is post-canon, i think i didn't include anything spoilery tho 
> 
> i don't really write get-togethers, or events leading up to a relationship, so this was a bit challenging to write

Brighid no longer has any compelling reason to leave Melia’s side now that everything’s done and dealt with (for the most part), but—

“She _visits_ you?” Dunban says. He blinks twice, and his shoulders heave once with an incredulous chuckle. The tea Mòrag had set down in front of him is already forgotten. “How remarkable. I thought she was glad to be rid of us. Duty calls, after all, and even you and I are outmatched by her diligence.”

“She always comes alone,” Mòrag adds.

“Hah! Imagine that.”

Mòrag stares down at her own cup and gently swirls it, watching the loose tea leaves spin around each other. A lot’s changed. But she didn’t think Brighid would change, despite the progress they’ve made from _I’ll only acknowledge you lot because Lady Melia has grown fond of you_ , to _I suppose we can chat if there’s nothing better to do._ In the end, no matter how much Brighid learned to tolerate (or even enjoy) the company of some odd Homs, serving Lady Melia was all she had and wanted. She’d made that clear over and over again.

And that’s simply her prerogative. What right did any of them have to argue against that? Everyone respected her fierce loyalty and kept their distance. Even Riki did, cuddling up to everyone but never attempting to do the same with the Tall Bird Lady.

It’s none of Mòrag’s business. She doesn’t remember treating Brighid any differently after everything that had happened. If she did (which is unlikely), maybe that’s why Brighid is now apparently seeking her out on her own time, away from Melia’s side, entirely of her own free will.

Which left Mòrag very, very confused. She didn’t know who else to speak to besides Dunban, so here they are.

“If I didn't know any better, I would say you're suspicious of her motives.” Dunban steeples his fingers together and presses the tips to his chin. He’s starting to grow a beard, and Mòrag thinks it looks kind of terrible, but now’s not the time to tell him to shave. “She could be trying to get something out of you.”

“That would be unlike her. I don’t have anything to offer, at any rate. My coffers are all but empty, and the High Entia certainly aren't lacking in manpower,” Mòrag says.

“Well, what do you usually do when she visits?”

Mòrag gestures to their untouched teacups. “We have tea. Sometimes, I prepare snacks in advance for her.”

“Aha. Brighid must be taking advantage of your generous hospitality for free meals.”

“Serious answers only, please.”

Dunban looks like he’s trying to hold back laughter. “Alright, so we’ll cross out that theory. You two sit down with a teapot between yourselves— then what?”

“We… talk.” Mòrag scratches her head. “Then I clear the dishes, she thanks me for my time, and leaves. That’s it. I wonder if this is Melia’s doing, after all?”

“Mòrag.” Dunban presses his mouth into a flat, thin line. “Have you considered the possibility that Brighid is just interested in you?”

* * *

Well, of course it crossed her mind. She’s not an _idiot_ , thank you very much. But Brighid isn’t the type of person to make friends or waste time with meaningless smalltalk. She’s proud and focused to the point where Reyn would say she has tunnel vision (and he has, on a few occasions), and she has better things to do.

Mòrag tries to clean up as much as she can before Brighid is due to arrive. Her house is smaller than Dunban’s, tucked away in an inconspicuous corner of the rebuilt colony, far from the plaza but with a clear view of the sea. Some would say it’s a lonely spot, but it suits her just fine. She sweeps the floor and straightens out some old photos framed on the wall, wipes down the table and contemplates putting some flowers in a vase when Brighid comes knocking.

“Come in,” Mòrag calls without turning around, staring at the empty spot on the table where a flower or two could go. In a glass vase? Ceramic might look nicer. “The door is unlocked.”

“Oh, there’s less dust than yesterday.”

“I thought you might appreciate a tidier space,” Mòrag says rather absentmindedly. Her house is so barren. Those old photos are the only things that decorate her home. Brighid never said anything, but she must have surely thought about it.

Maybe not flowers. Flowers would eventually wither and need to be replaced.

“I’d say it’s clean enough to pass off as a broom closet in the palace.”

“I’m honored,” she dryly says, but without sarcasm.

“Why are you staring at the table like it’s about to eat you?”

Mòrag’s head snaps up. Brighid is right next to her now, so close that a wing grazes her. “No reason. Please, sit— I’ll pour the tea.”

She takes a seat on one of the old, creaky chairs and folds her hands neatly in front of her. Mòrag can feel Brighid’s eyes tracking her as she moves around the kitchen. Usually she’d have something baking in the oven in advance, but Dunban’s visit had thrown off her schedule ever so slightly. Oh, right, she should apologize for that. She turns with a tray in hand, now thinking of ceramic vases.

“I didn’t have the time to bake anything today. I’m sorry, if you were looking forward to that.”

“Oh,” Brighid says, and she actually does look a bit disappointed. “Believe it or not, I was thinking about those little cakes you made last week. What did you call them? Mille…

“Mille-feuille.”

“Mille-feuille. It was the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,” Brighid sighs, resting her chin on her hands, elbows pressing against the table. “Even the finest High Entia sweets can’t hold a light to it. You’ve absolutely ruined me for every other dessert, Mòrag Ladair.”

All thoughts of glass vases and ceramic pots fly right out of her head. Mòrag doesn’t want to entertain the possibility— _was she really after some free snacks, all this time?_ No, that’s ridiculous. Brighid is standoffish and mysterious and many other things, but she’s not a freeloader.

Brighid’s eyes are closed, probably as she’s daydreaming about that mille-feuille. The only sound in the room is the tea being trickled into their cups.

“I could give you the recipe, if you’d like to make it yourself…?” Mòrag says with caution, unsure. Brighid is being so _nice._ She’s nice. It’s nice. It feels nice. She’s not sure. They’ve always been friends, haven’t they? This shouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary.

It feels like Brighid’s smile is locking onto her like a target.

“I think I would eat it only if it’s made by you.”

Hm, so Dunban was right after all.

Somehow, the rest of their conversation is normal and Mòrag only fumbles twice. The sunlight cast through the window slowly moves across the room, crawling over the floor and up the ceiling, marking a passage of time that neither of them bother tracking. Mòrag hangs onto every word Brighid says about Alcamoth’s repairs and how rude Tyrea is, while thoughts of flowers and vases and mille-feuille swirl through her mind like the tea leaves.

Mòrag had always been a solitary person by nature, ever since she lost her family.

And here she is, gladly playing hostess to a High Entia woman who lives by a similar dogma. She cleaned up her house and thought about putting flowers in a vase because she thought Brighid might appreciate that, and for no other reason.

Maybe she’d underestimated just how different things are now.

Eventually it’s dark enough outside that the ether lamps need to be lit. Mòrag follows Brighid to the door, something light fluttering in her chest.

She… likes being with Brighid. Yes, she can admit that out loud. It was only a matter of figuring out whether Brighid felt the same.

She feels considerably less confused than she was when Dunban had visited.

“Thank you for the dessert, Mòrag,” Brighid says, and then she does something new: she leans in to press her lips to Mòrag's, just for two seconds. A kiss as brief as the visit. Mòrag's head and face and mouth feel like they’re on fire, but not in a bad way, like she might drift off into the sun if she were to take a single step over the threshold. Brighid’s lips are. Soft. And warm.

“But we only had tea,” she hears herself say, and she wants to kick herself, but Brighid’s wings are stretching out and circling around her and her fingers are running over the spots on her face that feel like they’re burning (which is pretty much her entire face). So, she must have been doing something right this whole time.

It’s completely dark outside now. Brighid shuts the door behind her, and follows Mòrag to her bedroom.


	14. hair brushing/styling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wig

Poppi sits on the edge of one of the unoccupied beds, legs swinging back and forth in a steady rhythm. She watches with rapt attention as Brighid pulls a brush down the length of Mòrag’s hair, all the way down to her shoulder blades— who knew her hair was even that long? What lay beneath her cap was a mystery for a long time. Poppi wasn’t even sure there was anything at all, maybe Mòrag just had a big void on her head where hair should have been. 

That sure would have been something. 

For a few minutes, nothing exciting happens. Brighid brushes her hair, and occasionally rubs Mòrag’s scalp with her fingers, and Mòrag is beginning to nod off with a dazed, faraway look in her eyes.

Poppi takes her own hat off. She brings her fingertips up to the crown of her head and scratches, trying to mimic the way Brighid did it. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Brighid says. In the mirror, Poppi watches her cup Mòrag’s jaw with one hand to stop her chin from tucking against her collarbone. They’re both smiling. Poppi gives up on the scratching and lets her arm drop to the blanket. 

Mòrag covers her mouth when she yawns. That’s apparently the polite thing to do, but no one else except Pyra does that. Very strange. 

Brighid leans forward until her chest is pushing against the back of Mòrag’s head. Mòrag had taken ahold of her wrists, keeping her hands crossed over her front. They’re very close together, closer than Poppi had ever observed. 

“At this rate, you’ll be completely useless and I’ll have to fix my hair myself,” Brighid says.

“How fortunate I am, to be blessed with the Jewel of Mor Ardain watching over me when I’m reduced to a melted lump on the floor. And who do you suppose did the melting, Brighid?” 

“Oh, so you’ll shift the blame onto me?” 

The words make it sound like they’re supposed to be arguing, but Poppi senses no animosity behind them. Not like when Mythra gets frustrated or Nia is on the verge of stomping her feet and hissing. Very interesting stuff. They say mean things to each other but… with affection? So it’s not really mean. Poppi’s legs go still. 

But, more interesting is how Brighid gathers a handful of Mòrag’s hair and deftly brings it up with a few folds, forming the flat bun that Mòrag usually hides under her cap. Poppi tries to zoom in. Brighid doesn’t even seem to be trying hard at all when she takes a clip to hold the bun in place. In less than a few seconds, Mòrag now looks like Mòrag. 

Brighid kisses the top of her head. Is that supposed to help keep her hair in place, too? Poppi makes a note of it for later.

They switch places, Brighid now taking the seat in front of the mirror and the brush swapping between them. Just like how Brighid it did it for her, Mòrag pulls the brush through her hair. Brighid’s hair is so long that Mòrag has to bend at the knee to make sure the brush goes all the way through. 

Mòrag doesn’t massage her head, but she does use her fingers instead of the brush a few times, even though the brush would obviously do a better job at taking care of any tangles. Even Poppi knows that. People use hairbrushes and not their hands for a reason! 

Brighid’s hairbuns don’t use any clips like Mòrag’s does. Despite zooming in as much as she can, Poppi doesn’t quite understand how Mòrag rolls up and tucks Brighid’s hair in to hide her ears and stay in place. 

“… Another mystery?” she wonders out loud. Mòrag and Brighid turn at the same time, mildly startled. 

“—Oh. Poppi. I’m sorry, we completely forgot you were right there,” Brighid says, rising out of her seat. “Were you watching this whole time?”

Poppi nods and raises a hand. “Hair brushing look very fun between friends Mòrag and Brighid! Can Poppi also try?”

“Er, well.” Mòrag pulls her hands away from Brighid’s shoulders like she was touching a hot stove. “If you had spoken up earlier, before we finished up…”

Poppi tilts her head. “That is okay. Poppi has no idea how to deal with hair on fire, anyway!”

“I had a fireproof hairbrush commissioned,” Mòrag says, awkwardly holding it up. It doesn’t look much different from any other hairbrushes Poppi has seen, but that’s not what she’s interested in right now. 

Poppi hops off the bed and marches over to them, arms swinging. She stares up at them. Mòrag and Brighid stare down at her. 

She stretches her arms out to the sides, perfectly parallel to the floor and palms facing upwards, then bends her elbows at approximately forty-five degree angles. Then, she points to her head. 

“Poppi thinks it would be fun to have hair, for relaxing brushing experience!” 

“Oh.” Brighid puts the back of her hand to her chin. “That’s right, Tora didn’t bother giving you any synthetic hair, did he? It’s all metal.” 

“Would you like us to, er, polish your… hair, Poppi?” Mòrag asks. “I could use a cloth and some oil.”

“Hmmm.” Poppi takes the seat without asking, because she’s sure they wouldn’t mind. She kicks her feet out and stares at herself in the mirror, still pointing at her scalp, thinking. Thinking. Thinking. She doesn’t have soft, silky-smooth hair like them. Knowing that never really bothered her because she _is_ a one-of-a-kind artificial Blade, so that means she’s just fine the way she is, but she can’t help but wonder. What would it feel like, to have her hair brushed?

She undoes a couple clasps, spins the center bolt counter-clockwise, and pries off her hair. 

Mòrag makes a weird sound between a choke and a cough, gripping the back of the seat. Brighid’s eyebrows go so high the ether markings on her forehead look a bit squished. Such interesting reactions! She thought they knew she could remove this part. Maybe not. 

“Poppi is thinking, maybe Poppi could have different hairstyles crafted?” she muses, holding up her hair and turning it around. 

“That would be… certainly something to behold.” Mòrag straightens up and adjusts her collar, unable to tear her eyes away from Poppi’s bald, gleaming dome. 

“But different hairpieces use lots of resources…” 

“What do they even— nevermind. How about Lady Mòrag and I find some actual wigs for you, instead?” Brighid says, faster to recover than Mòrag. She even lays a hand on Poppi’s bare head and rubs back and forth, drawing a giggle out of her. “We can brush them and try out as many different styles as you want.”

“Really really?!” Poppi claps her hands together. She beams up at them in the mirror. “Wigs for Poppi?!”

“Of course,” Mòrag says. “As many as you need. It would be a shame for you to miss out on one of life’s simple pleasures. Brighid and I will do all we can to see your dream brought to fruition.” 

“This so exciting!” She jumps out of her seat and gives each of them a quick hug. Hair! Real hair… sort of. Hair that can be brushed and doesn’t need to be cleaned off like a piece of dinnerware! Mòrag and Brighid are so very nice and generous. Sometimes they can be intense and a bit scary because of how strong they are, but they are very gentle when doing things like brushing each other's hair. Poppi thinks she learned something new today. That information isn't quite as important as their offer, though. Hair! 

“Poppi want to share news! Poppi will be right back!”

“Wait, Poppi, please put your hair back on—“ Mòrag calls after her, to no avail.


	15. a fancy party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo i fell behind pretty badly because i started playing age of calamity and that's where all my free time is going now 
> 
> expect a zelda au to happen in the upcoming days wink wink

“It’s rather early to be ditching the soirée,” Mòrag says, emerging onto the balcony with two glasses of wine. The polite din of the party spills out into the night air before Mòrag nudges the doors closed with her foot. Brighid certainly wouldn’t be out here to enjoy the scenery, not when Mor Ardain doesn’t have much to look at besides the Titan’s head and the wasteland of its shoulder. She hands off one of the wine glasses to Brighid and settles beside her, leaning back against the balustrade and facing the doors. 

A perfunctory whiff tells Brighid that it’s something dreadfully strong. She scrutinizes Mòrag’s face, looking for any telltale ruddiness to her features, but her eyes are as clear as they ever are. 

“I thought I’d get some fresh air,” she says. “You know these functions aren’t exactly to my tastes. You’re not planning to drag me back in there to socialize, are you?”

“No,” Mòrag says with a curt wave of her wrist. “Truthfully, I had always considered these soirées to be a waste of time as well. Ah, but, politics. You know how it goes.” 

Brighid wants to rest her head against Mòrag’s shoulder, but she can sense not just one pair of eyes passing their way through the glass. The guests must be wondering why the Special Inquisitor had excused herself, and when she’s returning. Though she may be unpleasantly fierce when it comes to political matters, Mòrag is usually rather popular at these social functions. Especially among the aristocratic women. 

She chuckles at the thought of being envious of those birds. Mòrag barely even notices their affections at the best of times. Not out of cruelty, but because that’s just how her Lady Mòrag is. 

Mòrag’s brow crinkles. “Is something funny?” 

Well, forget any potential gawkers. Let them stare. She wraps an arm around Mòrag’s waist, still facing the dreadful scenery of steel and smog. 

“You know, I’m not usually well-received at these types of soirées,” Brighid cheerfully says. “No matter how I behave, it’s like there’s an invisible shield preventing any of the guests from getting close. I’m fairly sure they’re frightened of me.”

“Frightened? Because you are the Jewel of Mor Ardain?”

“Exactly.” Brighid’s hand moves up Mòrag’s side, tracing a seam along her suit jacket. “How else would any self-respecting Ardainian treat a precious national heirloom? They’re so afraid of offending me they can’t even manage a proper conversation. Sometimes, I’m surprised none of them have dropped offerings of wrapped gifts at my feet and scurried away like rats.” 

Mòrag sets her wine glass aside and turns around, careful not to slip out of Brighid’s grasp, until their shoulders are touching. Brighid can see that she’s frowning.

“They’re treating you like... I cannot allow that. I’ll—“

“Maybe I enjoy intimidating those old bags. It’s nothing worth making a fuss over,” Brighid says, pulling Mòrag closer until their hips bump. “I _am_ a Blade, Lady Mòrag.”

“But…”

“Thank you for keeping me company out here.” Without looking over her shoulder to see if anyone’s watching, she leans in to kiss Mòrag. Just to settle down any thoughts Mòrag may be having about defending her honor, or whatever. She can defend her own honor just fine, and she doesn’t mind the fact that they treat her as a Blade (a revered Blade they just about cower before, but still a Blade). 

These parties are just a bore. 

That’s all.

Mòrag looks like she wants to say more. There are a lot of things she could say, about Blades in Ardainian culture and Brighid’s royal status and the status quo and many other things, but she smartly keeps it all to herself. 

“I… love you,” she instead blurts out. 

Brighid could forget about everything else, at that moment. She raises her wine glass and tips it against Mòrag’s lips, enthralled by the way she drinks without hesitation. Let any spectators watch from the doors if they want. They can fear both the Special Inquisitor and her Jewel of Mor Ardain. 

“Very eloquently put,” Brighid murmurs with a smile, catching a drip of wine on Mòrag’s chin with a fingertip.


	16. (xc1 AU) gift-giving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays! soooo i didn't really stick to that daily update schedule i originally planned, but i figured i could just take my time wrapping up the second half in january. 
> 
> xc1 au again!! timeline is vague bc it's just fluff, but the whole party is present. some important things to note:
> 
> \- brighid doesn't actually dislike anyone in the party, she's just focused on guarding melia and isn't very interested in things like Forming Friendships......... for now  
> \- since morag does not come from royalty in this au, she has a more casual way of speaking. her mannerisms are similar to dunban's!  
> \- brighid likes flowers and fruit.  
> \- morag likes vegetables and strange things.  
> \- the gay is still budding in this part

They’ve been upholding this sort of tradition amongst themselves, where they might randomly offer small gifts to each other. There’s no real reason behind it other than to show off something neat that one might have found on the side of the pathway, or because Riki thinks one of them looks too skinny and should eat a nice juicy bug. Dunban and Mòrag do agree it helps bolster camaraderie in the group, aside from all that.

It’s almost become a fun game. Will Dunban stare blankly at this Sour Turnip Reyn just handed to him, or take a tentative bite? Mòrag might actually smile if Sharla gives her this Dolphin Carrot. This Chimera Rabbit looks cute, but Riki would probably try to fight it. Oh, Fiora may like to see this Cave Rat that Shulk caught.

Even Melia joins in once she’s grown to be more comfortable in their company, slowly learning everyone’s preferences and sharing her own.

But Brighid never partakes.

“Brighid always turns down everything I try to show her. That’s more than a bit snobbish, if you ask me,” Reyn says with a sniff, arms folded. Passing through Makna Forest means stopping more frequently to refill their water supply, and Riki had insisted on playing in the river this time. Melia awkwardly splashes back at him and Fiora while Brighid stands nearby, close enough to keep an eye on them but far enough that she won’t get her feet wet.

“She doesn’t like bugs, Reyn. You can’t keep trying to show her bugs,” Sharla says. “She’ll only end up hating you for it.”

“You… you think she hates me?” He rubs the back of his neck, but he doesn’t seem to be that bothered. Only bewildered, as if the idea of Brighid disliking him had never once crossed his mind.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” she sighs. “Though it’s a bit awkward, isn’t it? I thought I’d try to start a conversation with some flowers I picked by the bridge, but she barely even looked at them.”

“So. She probably hates you too, is that it?”

Mòrag decides to interject. “Brighid doesn’t hate anyone. She isn’t that type of person.”

Sharla and Reyn both stare at her, and now Mòrag gets the vague feeling that she might have said something wrong.

“She doesn’t dislike _you_ ,” Sharla says in an odd sort of way, like she’s only saying half of what she means to say.

“That’s probably ‘cuz Mòrag doesn’t offend her aromatic sensibilities.”

“… Aristocratic?” Mòrag tilts her head.

“Ah, big words, you get what I mean,” Reyn says with a shrug. “You’d think she’d loosen up a bit after Melia’s opened up, at least!”

Brighid is clearly on edge, ready to swoop in the moment Fiora or Riki splashes water into Melia’s eyes. They wouldn’t call her overprotective, because she does respect Melia’s undeniable proficiency in battle, but protecting Melia is all she ever seems to be thinking about. It does make sense. They all saw the aftermath of the Telethia’s attack. They all know what it’s like to lose loved ones. Brighid’s fear is as reasonable as their own.

Still, she won’t accept these random gifts from any of them except Melia.

And…

“Actually, there’s something I’ve been wondering about,” Sharla says. She reaches into her pouch and pulls out a small bunch of Pure Cherries, handing them off to Mòrag. “I tried sharing these with her this morning but she turned me down. I bet she’d take them if they’re from you, Mòrag.”

Her brows push together in puzzlement. “Are you trying to pull my leg?”

“Ohh, I get it.” Reyn is nodding. He probably doesn’t get it.

“Just try it!”

“I don’t see what you’re trying to prove. Other than having me make a fool out of myself in front of Brighid.”

“Please, you could trip face-first into a puddle of mud and she wouldn’t think any less of you.”

“Have you considered the possibility that she just doesn’t like cherries?”

Sharla taps a foot impatiently. “It’s not about whether or not she likes them, it’s about accepting them! Even Dunban is polite enough to throw away the vegetables _after_ Fiora has her back turned.”

“He— what! Perfectly good vegetables…!” Reyn whips around and sets off toward Dunban, who’d settled beneath the shade of a tree growing along the riverbank.

Mòrag rubs her forehead. She… would be lying if she said she didn’t care whether or not Brighid likes her. Anyone would feel that way, though, when they’re traveling in close proximity. Bonds grow strongest through battle, where watching each other’s backs is imperative— _trust_ is important. Do any of them actually trust Brighid, or do they trust her only because she’s unwaveringly faithful to Melia, who they all know they can rely on?

She looks down at the cherries in her hand. They’ve become warm and slightly squashed from being in Sharla’s bag all day. Mòrag can already anticipate Brighid’s polite refusal.

But come to think of it, had Brighid ever actually turned down anything Mòrag shared?

Once, Mòrag had shown her a steaming Hot Taro she’d picked somewhere on Gaur Plain. Brighid smiled, took a small bite, and declared it to be disgusting. But she took a bite. She tried it and told Mòrag what she thought of it, and even smiled.

“Look, your guess is as good as mine,” Sharla says, as if she could read Mòrag’s thoughts. “Who knows what’s going on in that pretty head of hers? I’m just curious! Humor me a little, won't you?”

So Mòrag sighs, pushes herself up to her feet, and meanders over to Brighid. She can feel Sharla’s stare boring into her back.

Brighid doesn’t look away from Melia as Mòrag approaches, but her wings slightly flutter. Mòrag stands beside her, now unsure. She shouldn’t be bothering her. Brighid is busy. Totally busy, watching Melia learn how to play like a normal girl. Very very busy, making sure she doesn’t drown in two feet of water.

Mòrag pops a cherry in her mouth.

“Did you need something?” Brighid asks without looking at her.

“Only your company, truthfully,” she says. She swallows and holds up the cherries. “Would you like one? They’re a bit warm, but taste perfectly fine. On my honor.”

Brighid finally turns her head. Opens her mouth, like a refusal is ready on the tip of her tongue. Closes her mouth. Plucks a cherry from the bunch, her fingers brushing over Mòrag’s palm. Hesitates. Brings the small fruit to her lips. Her lips look soft. Wait, what?

Riki had jumped onto Melia’s back and now Melia is shrieking with both delight and indignation, stumbling into Fiora, but Brighid doesn’t do anything. It’s like she doesn’t even notice.

“… Thank you, Mòrag,” she says, and she eats the cherry. She takes a step closer and reaches for another one. “It’s delicious.”

So that basically confirms Sharla’s suspicions.

Mòrag doesn’t care to glance behind her to see the look on Sharla’s face. Invigorated by these new revelations, she fumbles with her own bag and pulls out the Lemonade Sky she’d picked up the day before, relishing the small smile on Brighid’s face as she takes the deep blue stone and turns it over in her hands.


	17. (zelda AU) horseback riding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here's that botw au i mentioned would happen
> 
> AU context:  
> \- morag is the descendant of a knight who served the royal family  
> \- brighid is the descendant of a member of the court  
> \- both of them don't have any wealth tho because...... calamity. they live as normal travelers, moving between towns and stables. moraghid peasants LOL they make a living off of selling potions they brew from monster parts.  
> \- morag is handy with a sword and brighid usually doesn't fight but she's very skilled with a bow

The path to Kakariko is visible, but beginning to show the wears of age. Years of rain have marred the boundary between road and field, and weeds are reclaiming the dirt little by little. Only hoof prints from traveling merchants mark where they’re supposed to go. Mòrag and Brighid’s horses leave fresh prints to overlap the old ones that have mostly faded.

They mostly travel in silence, partly because there’s not much to say, partly because the whistle of the warm breeze is so pleasant it’d be a shame to interrupt it, and partly because making noise could attract monsters. Bokoblins aren’t any more dangerous than horseflies, but the Moblins that usually accompany them mean trouble— _especially_ when they start throwing their smaller companions.

Getting bodied by a screeching, flailing Bokoblin isn’t very fun.

Mòrag knows this from experience.

She examines her map for what must be the twentieth time. Mòrag squints up at the sky as if there’s something up there that could tell her if they’re getting closer or not. She shields her eyes against the sun and frowns so hard her neck tenses up.

“Relax,” Brighid says, and she’d squeeze her hand if she could, but their horses are too far apart for her to reach over. “We’ll reach Kakariko before sunset.”

“And what if we don’t?” Mòrag is still squinting and frowning.

“Then I suppose we’ll have to find a cave to hide in for the night. I’d prefer a soft bed at the inn, but a shared bedroll doesn’t sound so bad either, does it?”

Brighid kicks her horse into a brisk trot before Mòrag can respond. Mòrag’s horse matches the new pace without prompting, and Brighid is just a little pleased to see her fumble with the map. Worrying makes sense. Everyone worries these days. Constant worrying is just an everyday part of life.

Living in fear does get tiring, though. They pass by some crumbling stone walls that were probably once part of a village, long since ruined and partially buried under years of creeping vegetation. In spite of it all, it’s beautiful. In a sort of melancholic way. But still beautiful. Brighid’s horse slows down to its usual ambling pace— _lazy beast_ , she thinks with begrudging affection, patting its neck.

A few Bokoblins (unaccompanied by Moblins, thank the goddess) come running at them. The horses are so used to these attacks they don’t immediately bolt, even when Mòrag leaps down to hack and slash away at the monsters. They make an awful lot of noise. Once Mòrag kicks the last one down, she hoists herself back up into the saddle and they urge their horses to gallop.

* * *

“A young man I spoke to while we were in Akkala told me something interesting in regards to the Guardians,” Mòrag says. “There is a reliable way to destroy them.”

“Oh?” Brighid keeps her attention straight ahead. The path is leading them through some thick woods, which means they must be drawing close to Hateno, but lots of trees means plenty of places for Bokoblins to hide. Figures that Mòrag would feel like idle conversation now of all times. Their horses don’t seem to hear anything out of the ordinary, at least, so it should be safe.

“Supposedly, one would be able to redirect the beam of a Guardian back at it.”

“I guess that could work,” Brighid says, skeptical.

“He said he had done such a thing many times before.”

“How, exactly?”

“You have to…” Mòrag makes a violent gesture with her arm, like she’s slapping at an invisible fly in front of her. “With a shield. It requires quick precision and even quicker reflexes. Interestingly enough, he claimed any sort of shield would do. Even a wooden pot lid. Could you imagine that, Brighid? Defeating a Guardian with a mere pot lid?”

“If it were so easy, the Hyrulean Army wouldn’t have fallen.”

“I—“ Her expression falls. “I don’t mean to speak ill of their last stand. However, if no one had ever thought of such methods before…”

Brighid knows that sound in her voice. When Mòrag starts speaking like that, it means she wants to run out and try to fight or kill something. Usually both. It’s no big deal if she declares that she’s going to go hunting for boars or wolves or Bokoblins, but Guardians are a whole different matter.

Could it be boredom? Has the droll struggle of everyday survival finally gotten to her? Mòrag had always been the restless sort. Brighid doesn’t mind. It’s nice to be married to someone so active. She has to draw the line at going after Guardians, though— with or without a pot lid.

“How about we focus on reaching the next stable before the sun goes down? Weren’t you fretting about that earlier?” Brighid steers her horse closer, close enough that she can lean over (rather precariously) and swipe her hand into Mòrag’s coat pocket. It’s a rather awkward moment in between their horses moving just a bit too quickly and Mòrag automatically trying to hold Brighid as if she’s in any real danger of falling off, but Brighid straightens up with the map in hand.

“We could make an early stop at Riverside Stable and reach Kakariko tomorrow,” Mòrag suggests.

“So you’ll have plenty of time to go looking for Guardians?”

“That sounds like an accusation, Brighid.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to see you get blown up.”

“Well… that’s fair,” Mòrag says, and Brighid wants to throw something at her.

* * *

It starts to rain just as they reach the Riverside Stable, so it all works out. And the rain means Mòrag won’t be able to go running out into Hyrule Field to get blown up by Guardians. They board their horses and pay for a single bed (and pay extra when the stable master gives them the stinkeye), where they can shed their packs. They go out to stretch beneath the awning and breathe in the smell of wet dirt and grass and goat manure. The humidity makes Brighid sneeze.

Mòrag subtly bumps her chin against Brighid’s shoulder like a cat vying for attention. A few hours of riding by horse isn’t usually this exhausting, but the thought of Mòrag trying to fight a Guardian with only a pot lid left Brighid feeling rather drained. For some reason, Mòrag is unclothed no matter which way Brighid tries to imagine the battle: wearing nothing but her chest bindings and a pair of shorts, brandishing a wooden lid, bravely running straight at a Malice-infested Guardian with its slick, clicking legs and beeping whirr as it takes aim.

Brighid slips a hand to the small of her back, slowly rubbing in small circles. That’s the extent of the affection Mòrag gets, because a couple merchants are speaking nearby and the stable master has his eyes on everyone ( _everyone_ , both inside and outside). Definitely not because she’s both annoyed and aroused by the scene that just played out in her head.

Realistically, Mòrag would wear armor.

“Please don’t do anything reckless,” Brighid says, keeping her voice low. “Especially if it’s just for the thrill of it.”

“The thrill of it?” Mòrag repeats. “That’s not it at all. I was only thinking that perhaps, if I were able to reliably dispatch any Guardians we happen to come across… if I were _stronger_ , then you needn’t worry so much.”

Brighid leans against her. She’s warm and smells like horse. Brighid probably smells like horse, too. “If I worried as much as you think I do, I would have made you settle down in Hateno with me ages ago. Besides, you’re the one who gets nervous whenever we’re on the road at night.”

“I can’t allow you to be the only one who worries, now can I?”

She throws her hands up. “So we both worry about different things.”

“I could take on a Guardian. They know not what I’m capable of.”

“Are you even listening to yourself, Mòrag?”

“If that boy could— ah, speak of the devil.” Mòrag turns to her right, and Brighid follows her gaze to… to… a young man changing his clothes right out in the open, beneath the drizzling rain, next to the stable’s cooking pot. He doesn’t seem to care that there are definitely people gawking at him as he yanks his shirt and pants and boots off, and shoves all that clothing into a satchel that looks too small to fit everything he just crammed in there.

 _That’s_ the legendary pot lid-wielding Guardian slayer?

Brighid wants to pull Mòrag back inside and maybe distract her with the promise of cuddles on their bought bed, lack of privacy be damned, but the boy is looking over and his face lights up in recognition when he sees Mòrag. He waves to her, still completely undressed, now pulling apples out of his satchel and tossing them into the pot.

Mòrag, bless her heart, doesn’t even blink. She walks over to him with a polite greeting and offers to start the fire with her own flint. The rain is beginning to let up. Everything’s damp, but they’ve miraculously avoided a downpour.

Brighid sighs and goes to sit with them.

* * *

They set out early in the morning. The young man who spoke of destroying Guardians had left even earlier than that, probably sometime in the middle of the night— come to think of it, he didn’t have a horse with him. How odd. Was he traveling on foot? He at least put some clothes on before he departed, right?

“Our horses need names,” Mòrag suddenly says, once the stable is behind them. “He said that a name helps strengthen the bond between steed and rider.”

It’s not like Mòrag to take advice from strangers so willingly. That boy must have left a serious impression on her, to manage to convince her that she could destroy a Guardian with a pot lid _and_ that she should name her horse. Maybe Brighid shouldn’t have gone to bed early and missed out on the rest of their conversation.

Brighid looks down at her horse. Mare. It’s a mare, she knows that much. Mòrag’s as well. Hers is dappled blue, while Mòrag’s is completely black except for a stripe of white down its face. Funny, she never really noticed how her horse has faint touches of grey in its mane.

“I thought you two were talking about how to kill Guardians, not naming horses.”

“He was an unusual young man,” Mòrag says, “with an odd sort of wisdom beyond his years, yet refreshingly naive. I can’t help but believe we’ll cross paths again, someday.”

Brighid glances over her shoulder in the direction of Hyrule Castle, where the miasma of the Calamity swallows everything within its grasp. They know the stories as well as anyone.

“You don’t think…”

They look to each other.

“Old legends,” Mòrag firmly says. “A nomadic savant is hardly out of the ordinary these days.”

And that’s that. Once again, Mòrag begins to wonder if they’ll reach Kakariko before sundown, and Brighid tells her that it’s nothing to worry about because they’ve both become rather skilled at killing anything smaller than a Hinox. What about Guardians? No, better leave the Guardians to the experts. Not worth the risk. If they happen to bump into one, they’ll just flee as fast as they can. Their horses are fast. Speaking of which, they should start thinking of names for them.

The rain has cleared, leaving behind puddles that they splash through in their ambling trot.


	18. bed sharing (mythra/nia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did take an extended break, not even going to lie. my new goal is to finish this before the end of january let's goooo 
> 
> I'm running a Xenoblade Femslash Week from February 7 - February 13! Anyone is free to join, [come check it out!](https://xbcfemslash.carrd.co/#femslash-week)

Three beds.

They’ve only got three beds, each only meant for one person, meant to be split among six people. The math isn’t hard. The sleeping arrangements, on the other hand, are going to need some careful deliberation as to not rouse any sort of awkward confrontations, or anything like—

“I’m sharing with Mòrag,” Mythra declares. 

Brighid raises the temperature of the room by about eight degrees. _“Excuse me.”_

Since Blades don’t really need rucksacks or suitcases or pouches, all Mythra has on her is her sword. She manifests it in one outstretched hand and drops it onto a bed to claim it. The mattress doesn’t even budge from the weight of the impact; looks like they probably won’t be getting any good rest either way. Mythra’s eyes narrow to slits, honed in on Brighid. 

“Mòrag is the only one who doesn’t snore, or kick, or is a blatant fire hazard. So I’m sharing with her.”

Brighid takes one threatening step forward. “I’ll burn you, Mythra.”

“I’d like to see you try!”

“Do I not get a say in this?” Mòrag looks like she isn’t sure whether she should be flattered or annoyed. Or just plain bewildered. Sharing such a cramped room is less than ideal, but it was either this or the only other available room with _one_ bed. It didn’t seem like it was going to be a hassle, but now Mythra’s apparently decided now’s the right time to vent out some pent-up grievances.

Camping would have worked just as well. Too bad the weather wouldn’t permit it tonight. So, here they are, arguing over absolutely nothing. 

“—Hold up, you didn’t say anything the last time we had to share a bed!” Nia says. She _definitely_ looks annoyed, and ready to air her own dirty laundry as well. With her fists planted on her hips, she strides right up to Mythra and glares hard enough to distract her from Brighid’s flaring temper. 

Mythra wavers. She opens her mouth. 

“… _Backstabber_ ,” Nia says rather emphatically. “I see how it is. You can dish it out but you can’t take it. You know I’ve still got bruises on my legs from the way you thrashed everywhere? I dreamt I was being trampled by an Ardun herd.” 

“I-I don’t kick in my sleep! Shut up!” 

“Drooled plenty, too!” 

While Nia quite literally backs Mythra up against the wall, paving the way for a noise complaint from whoever’s staying in the adjacent room, Mòrag and Brighid claim one of the two remaining beds— the one closest to the door, no doubt so they’re able to make a speedy escape if necessary. Like everything else they do, their strategy is quick, efficient, and happens before anyone else even notices what they’re doing. One second they’re by the door, then the next Brighid had stripped Mòrag down (in a record time that shouldn’t even be possible) and pulled her under the sheets with a forceful _good night_ that goes unheard. 

“If you don’t kick in your sleep, then where did the bruises on my legs come from?”

“How should I know? It’s not like you don’t move around plenty, too.” 

“Sometimes I dream about running! Everyone has dreams like that!” 

While they argue, they climb onto the bed as if by pure muscle memory, never tearing their eyes away from each other. The sword dissipates to make space. Nia curls up on her side and Mythra brings the off-colored, moth-eaten blanket over them with an angry flourish. They lay there, practically nose to nose, trying to squint at each other without going cross-eyed.

“I’ll bite you on the arm if you kick. Deal?” Nia says.

Mythra scoffs. “And if you snore I’ll push you off the bed.”

“G’night.”

“Good night.”

Pandoria stands there in the darkness, blinking owlishly behind her glasses. 

“… Alright, looks like it’s gonna be you and me, Poppi my pal— oh. You already went into sleep mode. Standing up. Okay, that’s totally not weird or a bit creepy at all. Does this mean I get that third bed all to myself? Sweet! Keeping my mouth shut totally paid off, who knew?”

“Go to sleep, Pandoria,” comes Nia’s irritated grumble. Mythra grunts in agreement. 

“ _Pandy! Pandy! Pandy!_ ” she whispers a chant of victory to herself, tiptoeing across creaky floorboards to the one remaining bed.


	19. practice/preparation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god, we're already getting close to the midway point of january. what the fuck

Listen. She hears the faint whistling of a distant wind. It’s hot against her skin and raises goosebumps at the same time. Somewhere in the distance echoes the mechanical grind of Alba Cavanich, and the hum of what may be a Titan ship leaving the Palace docks… but that’s all far away. Focus on what’s within proximity. Listen.

Listen for the _whoosh_ of sudden movement, of heels clacking against the ground, and move.

Mòrag takes a (quite literal) stab in the dark. She ducks to her right because the goosebumps on her left arm shiver, and twists to strike out where she thinks Brighid might be.

For her efforts, she earns a solid chop against the top of her head.

“ _Ah—_ ”

“You did better that time. But you got distracted, didn’t you?”

Mòrag yanks her blindfold off and blinks rapidly to adjust to the midday sun. Brighid taps the wooden training sword against her head again, this time considerably more gentle, before dropping it with a noisy clatter.

“I think that’s enough practice for today, Lady Mòrag. I wouldn’t want to give you a concussion.”

“Was I really closer to a successful counterattack? Or are you only saying that to mollify me?” Mòrag can’t deny that her head is feeling… tender, though. Brighid definitely wasn’t holding back— which she has no problem with!— but that means the price for her mistakes was high.

And she did make quite a few mistakes.

Learning how to fight blindfolded from someone who always fights with her eyes closed is still one of her most brilliant ideas to date, Mòrag would argue. Brighid may feel otherwise, but there’s always practical use with such a skill. Such as! Battling in fog or smoke. Or if Mòrag gets dust or sand in her eyes. Or if they were in a room filled with enemies and the lights went out all at once.

Then wear safety goggles, Brighid said. Then she’ll just illuminate the surrounding area with her flames, Brighid had also said.

Brighid touches Mòrag’s face, wiping a bead of sweat away with her thumb. That distracts Mòrag long enough for her to snatch the blindfold away.

“It was a half-lie. You weren’t any closer to blocking my attack, but you did react more quickly.”

“So I _am_ making progress, then,” Mòrag says, blinking again as she realizes the blindfold is no longer in her hand. She drops her training sword and makes a lunge for the cloth; Brighid smoothly sidesteps her with practiced reflex, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Like water and oil, they continue their odd little dance across the training grounds until Mòrag finally manages to catch her by both wrists.

Slightly out of breath, sweat matting her hair down, Mòrag triumphantly tugs Brighid’s hands to her sides and steps close.

“… I’d say this has been a productive training session,” Brighid manages to say. She puts up no resistance as Mòrag takes the blindfold back. “Exceptional work as always.”

“One more bout.” She’s already tying the blindfold around her eyes again, taking several steps back to restore distance between them. “Without swords. Try to pin me down, Brighid.”

How cunning of her to offer an invitation that Brighid would never refuse. She scoffs and brushes an errant strand of hair away from her face, glowing with the warmth of fondness. Both of them ready their stances, Mòrag’s mouth pressed into a thin line and muscles tense as she focuses once more on the sounds around her.

“Roger that, Lady Mòrag.”


	20. (xc1 au) secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xc1 au again! 
> 
> strayed off the prompt but the original idea i had for this wasn't really working out so i defaulted to bird brighid being thirsty for morag

“Shall I ask what those two are doing, or am I better off remaining ignorant?” Melia asks, approaching the scene with Brighid in tow.

This would be more alarming if they were around a populated area, but there’s no one out here on this stretch of sand except for some stray Mechon wandering around. The smaller ones don’t pose much of a threat but are aggressive all the same; Mòrag and Dunban race back and forth across the sand, slashing through each one that comes waddling at them. They’re surrounded by broken Mechon parts. Shulk is going to have a field day scavenging after they're done.

But that’s not the weird part. The weird part is that both of them are completely unclothed, their dignity preserved only by plain white undergarments. Their clothes are stacked in a neat, folded pile beside Shulk.

“Someone in the village asked if we could clear this beach of hostile Mechon,” Shulk says, kicking his heels in the dirt. “The three of us thought we could take care of it this afternoon.”

Melia stares at him. “That does not answer my question.”

“You want to know why they stripped.” Shulk is only feigning ignorance. He scratches his cheek with an awkward chuckle. “Er, I’m not sure I can explain it well… they were talking about something on the way here and Mòrag suddenly got all fired up. To tell the truth, I was only half-listening, but I think she was asking Dunban how he’s able to move so quickly in battles.”

“The secret to his unmatched agility, hm?” Brighid comments, apparently unimpressed but watching them anyway. She turns only to address Melia: “Lady Melia, please avert your gaze from this vulgar display.”

“I am not a child, Brighid.” Melia says, then reconsiders the implication of what she’s saying. Her ears flush pink. “However— it isn’t as though I would like to watch, either! I have absolutely no interest in observing such indecency—!”

“They _are_ moving a bit faster than usual, though,” Shulk helpfully chimes in.

That’s… actually true. Some of the larger Mechon units that patrol other parts of the Fallen Hand are hovering and trudging and stomping over, drawn by the mechanical carnage. Dunban, with his katana, and Mòrag, with her rapiers, welcome their advance with such energetic frenzy that Melia can’t help but wonder if their state of undress really is the secret to decisive victory. Surely not, that’s ridiculous. Yet… the proof is undeniable, happening right before their eyes.

If all of them were to…

Absolutely not! Perish the thought!

“Brighid, are your eyes open?!” Melia says in complete disbelief, mouth twisting downward.

Brighid’s feathers ruffle. She shuts her eyes and shifts from one foot to another, fidgeting. “I, ah, I wasn’t…”

“You were _staring._ At Mòrag.” Melia is far from oblivious and Brighid had lost all subtlety some time ago. The signs must have began to show back when they were all forced to huddle together while resting on Valak Mountain, and Brighid graciously allowed Mòrag to curl up beneath her wing. Melia isn’t sure if she should be happy about these developments or not, given her steward's tendency to become fixated to the point of tunnel vision. Melia would never deny Brighid the opportunity for personal happiness, but... she may have to intervene at some point.

Because it's just embarrassing. Plain embarrassing.

“Well…” Brighid can’t even deny it.

“It looks like she might actually be overtaking Dunban,” Shulk says, engrossed by the spectacle by now. The two of them are stabbing away at a pair of Meteor Artillery units with frightening efficiency, darting back and forth and in circles. Those poor Mechon can’t even land a single scratch on them.

“Mòrag is certainly skilled, for a Homs... her swordplay is flawless,” Brighid weakly says. Her eyes open again, just a crack. Her gaze is focused entirely on Mòrag. Not even Dunban performing a magnificent Blossom Dance could grab her attention. Did she just bite her lip? Yes, she did.

“Yeah, go for it!” Shulk hollers, cupping his hands over his mouth. “You guys are amazing!”

“I do hope this will not set a precedent for those two battling in the nude from now on,” Melia flatly says.

She has a feeling that Brighid probably wouldn’t mind.


	21. chores

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally i was going to have brighid just burn all the clothes but

Mòrag catches sight of Corinne wincing while stirring a pot of something in the kitchen, learns that the older woman had recently strained her back while tilling the fields, and Brighid knows exactly how this is going to end. Allow us to help, Mòrag says. We are more than happy to assist, she says. Such trifling matters are no trouble at all, she says.

“I hope you will lend me your aid, Brighid,” she says.

Brighid puts on her most appeasing smile and slightly bows. “I’ll do my best to live up to your expectations, Lady Mòrag.”

So that’s how the Special Inquisitor and Jewel of Mor Ardain ended up outside behind the house, standing before a massive pile of laundry and a wooden tub filled almost to the brim with water. They could have taken over the cooking for Corinne! But Brighid wasn’t keen on Mòrag making enemies out of all the children under Corinne’s care. This was the other alternative, and Brighid supposes learning how to wash clothes by hand is safer than allowing Mòrag to inadvertently declare war on the children of Fonsett Village.

Mòrag even changed out of uniform and into casual clothes for this great event, in the same way she would arm herself with weapons before marching into battle. She crouches in front of the tub, rolls up her sleeves, and pauses.

They have machines for this kind of task in Mor Ardain. The weather’s always hot and dry enough that they hang their garments to dry afterward, but machines typically handle the washing part.

“… Should we have a washing machine imported?” Mòrag asks, her palms hovering over the water.

“That may not be the most prudent decision,” Brighid diplomatically says, “even if Corinne may appreciate the convenience. It would take at least a week for one to arrive, besides.”

“Then I suppose I have no choice but to deal with this matter… by hand.”

“You’ve got this, Lady Mòrag.”

She takes the first piece of clothing from the pile and shakes it out. It’s caked in dry mud and the sleeves are a bit torn. After one more encouraging smile from Brighid, Mòrag bravely plunges it into the tub, roughly scraping the shirt against the washboard. The water quickly clouds and becomes murky, frothing from the washing powder that was dumped in earlier.

Brighid can’t help but feel somewhat affronted, rather than humbled, by the sight of her Lady Mòrag crouching in the soil and doing some random children’s laundry. These tasks should be beneath her! The Special Inquisitor has more important things to do!

Yet at the same time, that effortless modesty is part of what makes Mòrag so damn attractive. Brighid leans against the siding and watches her work with some degree of appreciation.

Mòrag lifts the shirt out and holds it up with both hands, dripping.

“Ah.”

It’s completely ripped to shreds.

But clean!

But all torn up. Mòrag must have scrubbed it too hard.

“I’m sure it would have fallen apart sooner than later,” Brighid quickly says. “You know how careless children are, falling off things and getting chewed on by wild animals.”

“Perhaps this task requires a more delicate hand,” Mòrag says, still staring at the ruined shirt in dismay. She turns up to Brighid, just about pouting. “Will you help me?”

Brighid wants to say no. She could never resist that look on Mòrag’s face, though. “Of course, Lady Mòrag. Leave it to me.”

She kneels beside Mòrag, their shoulders brushing, and takes a random piece of garment from the pile between two fingers. It’s… a pair of boxers. Brighid flings it aside and picks the next one. Another shirt. That’s better.

“This isn’t exactly how I imagined I’d be spending time with you today,” Brighid says, leaning back as she dips the shirt into the water, just enough that her wrists stay dry. “I’m not complaining, of course. Helping Ursula learn how to be a pop star was more bizarre than this.”

“There is value to be had in a day of honest work,” Mòrag says, carefully trying to scrub another piece of clothing against the washboard without eviscerating it to threads. “This could be fun, couldn’t it? I have always been curious about the daily lives of commoners.”

“Doing their laundry, though?”

Mòrag actually sort of laughs, more like chuckles, and leans half her weight against Brighid. Her arms are soaked up to the elbows now, while Brighid still hasn’t allowed her hands to go any deeper than her palms. Not because the water hurts— but it’s just dirty. And she’s only doing this because she loves Mòrag. At least Corinne had them doing laundry instead of cleaning the washrooms, or something equally unpleasant.

After a while, it actually does feel sort of nice. The sun is pleasant here, not burning hot like in Mor Ardain, and a cool breeze keeps the sweat off Mòrag’s brow. The smell of whatever Corinne is cooking wafts through an open window above their heads. They fall into a comfortable silence as they work (well, Mòrag is doing most of the work) and the pile of dirty clothes gradually shrinks.

Brighid still tosses aside any piece of underwear she comes across, though.


	22. reminiscing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chickenheart dagmara was harder to kill than tyrannotitan kurodil

There is a peculiar phenomenon found across the entirety of Alrest, as strange and mundane as the mystery of the Leftherian Titan’s true form. Nobody knows who creates these stone monoliths. Nobody ever seems to question them, either. Who knows what the Leftherian Titan actually looks like, and why should anyone care? 

One such grave marker has shown up along the catwalks of the old, abandoned factory out in Chansagh Wastes. It’d be impossible not to remember what they had encountered in this very spot, high above the ground floor of the factory. Among all the monsters they’ve slain and rogue Drivers they’ve beaten up in this place, only one deserves their acknowledgment.

A few unconscious Drivers litter the path behind them. Brighid was the one to decide that they’ve earned a break, so here they are, staring at this gravestone that looks like it was taken from some plot of dirt and randomly plonked down on the metal grate.

“Truly, it was a worthy foe,” Mòrag says with reverence, staring at the marker even though there isn’t anything carved into it. “Do you remember, Brighid?”

“Like it was yesterday.”

It was last week.

Also, Brighid kind of hated that thing. A lot. 

Mòrag puts a hand to her chin, slipping into deep thought. The grave marker isn’t any different from all the other ones they’ve found during their travels. Tora would sometimes ask about them, but Nia usually tells him to stop asking annoying questions. Rex just smiles and shrugs and Mythra sarcastically says they should add it to the pile of questions they have for the Architect. Dromarch thinks they’re very interesting.

Brighid knows exactly what Mòrag is thinking. _Such a magnificent beast deserves a more unique grave— ceremony, and recognition_. Or something ridiculous like that. 

“Our skills have never been tested to that extent before, have they?” A slight, slight smile crosses Mòrag’s face. “Of all the foes we have faced… the adversaries we have overcome… none come close to what we had slain here. It’s almost a shame that we were so quick to kill it. The little creature even managed to topple me several times.”

Inwardly, Brighid thinks about how much she hates Pippito. 

“Thus, I have decided that it deserves a posthumous title.” 

Well. _Hate_ is a strong word. She just doesn’t like them much. 

“… Chickenheart Dagmara!” Mòrag sweeps one arm out in that grand gesture she’s prone to do when getting carried away. 

“And where did you come up with that?” Brighid asks. This is just getting weird. Mòrag is talking about a pint-sized monster they killed in a greasy, sweaty factory that still hasn’t been properly powered down because bureaucracy is the real monster here. 

“I’m… not sure,” Mòrag says, frowning. “Is it not an appropriate title?” 

“I bet it would be happy with it, if Pippito could talk. Or if they had brains bigger and more substantial than overripe fruit.” 

“You know, Brighid…” Mòrag slips an arm around her waist, an uncharacteristic moment of public affection. Does this even count as being out in the public? They’re the only ones here, except for those unconscious Drivers behind them. Semi-public. “There is no greater thrill than the searing heat of your flames burning me in battle.”

“Only in battle?”

“Both in and out of battle,” she says without missing a beat. “Overcoming these challenges is twice as satisfying when I know you are at my side.”

Of course she would say such a thing with a completely straight face! Brighid even decides to move past the innuendo she had intentionally suggested, helplessly caught in the charm that Mòrag doesn’t even mean to exude. Most of the time. Even while she’s fondly reminiscing about a horrible furry little thing that almost killed her, she’s charming. 

She leans into Mòrag’s side, sighing aloud and wrapping them both in an aura of her heat. The factory is sweltering as is, but she knows Mòrag wouldn’t mind. She _likes_ being burned. Brighid affectionately rubs her cheek against Mòrag’s shoulder.

“I’m sure we’ll find another monster that’s just as obnoxious and difficult to kill,” Brighid says. She steals a glance behind them. “Or we could wait for those Drivers to wake up, and give them another thrashing.”

“That would be… improper conduct.” Mòrag finally tears her eyes away from the grave marker, her arm slightly tightening around Brighid’s waist for a quick squeeze. “Sounds like a plan.”


	23. (xc1 au) promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the idea for this was very amorphous and vague but i just wanted to get it down before it slipped away from me
> 
> i should also maybe clarify that all the xc1 au chapters here are within the same continuity

“I am going to marry Brighid,” Mòrag declares, kneeling, her voice ringing clearly in the great hall. She doesn’t state it as a challenge; she says it as a request for Melia’s blessing. 

“She said yes?” 

Mòrag keeps her face down to hide her giddy smile. 

Melia wants to clasp her hands over her mouth and flutter her wings in joy, but she maintains her composure with an imperious nod, the bare minimal gesture of satisfation. 

So, her loyal steward has finally found someone else to devote herself to. 

A year ago, Melia would have been uncertain. Maybe even a bit jealous. She’d been grappling with her own feelings about Shulk, then Fiora, and the thought of Brighid ever becoming attached to anyone else in the same way never once crossed her mind. Taking Brighid for granted had been unintentional, but that’s what it was. All these years and she never once tried to encourage her last remaining knight to seek her own path, too fearful of losing sight of her after the other four had perished in their fight against the Telethia. 

Things are different now. Besides, Tyrea fills a different role that Brighid was never able to take. 

Formalities, and all that. 

“I’m glad,” Melia simply says, gesturing for Mòrag to stop kneeling. “Will you walk with me?” 

The palace is empty at this hour. Teelan might be somewhere in the west wing, tending to his research, and she suspects Tyrea is somewhere hidden within earshot, but they’re otherwise completely alone. They take their time loitering by one of the old winged statues, half of it destroyed but still recognizable. Mòrag pays no mind to it. 

“Melia, I promise you—“ 

“Save your vows for Brighid,” Melia says, hands folded behind her back. “I have no objections whatsoever to your engagement.”

“Truly?” Mòrag stops walking. 

Melia stops in her tracks as well, half-turning to face Mòrag. There’s something in her eyes, something between caution and hope. Melia had seen that look on her face before; she only wore that expression around Brighid. Perhaps she was right to let go of those feelings she thought she had for Shulk and Fiora, then, if this is the extent she’s able to decipher them to. 

Tyrea would call her a fool. Brighid would say she only needs more years to learn. 

She _knows_ what love is. When they battle together, Brighid only ever stands before Melia like a shield, careful to protect her from any attack. But if it’s Mòrag… Brighid fights beside her, shoulder to shoulder, as equal peers rather than a knight with her liege. 

Is that not what love is? The ability to have such unwavering confidence in another person? 

“… I once thought of her as my mother,” Melia says. “I then accepted her as a protector, then a companion, then a confidante. Of all the people who had fought for my sake, Brighid was the only one to survive.” 

“We fought for you as well,” Mòrag says.

“Yes, that’s right. If not for you all, Brighid would have been the last person in the world I would have been able to trust.” Melia casts her gaze to the ground. “That is why… I am glad, that you are able to fight for her sake as well. Please make her happy.”

“To tell the truth, I was afraid she would turn down my proposal. But now I’m not even sure why I feared her rejection,” Mòrag says, failing again to hide her smile. “I’d do anything for Brighid. I came here to make sure you were the first to know, that’s all.”

“I never had a single doubt.”

It really is a fortunate thing, Melia thinks, that Brighid has chosen to fall in love with with someone like Mòrag.


	24. wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unfortunately, i think i am going to stop S+ here and cut out a week's worth of prompts in order to redirect my energy to planning for xenoblade femslash week! [which you should go check out btw](https://twitter.com/XBCFemslash) wink wink. 
> 
> a huge thank you to those who stuck with me and watched me struggle on AHAHA, i really do appreciate all the kind comments! maybe i'll tack on the last 7 prompts in the future if i ever get time/inspiration.

Aegaeon is livelier than anyone had ever seen him before. 

He moves between people, speaking to each of them and all of them at once with excited gestures and pointing to where _this_ should go and _that_ would go. Leave plenty of space between each row of seats! Those tables are too close to the edge of the venue! Make way for the electricians, they’re going to start rigging up the lights! Nia hasn’t a clue what he’s going on about, which is why she’s glad that he had left her alone to sit at the side and watch.

Apparently she and Dromarch hadn’t been the only ones summoned to Alba Cavanich. They just happened to be the first to arrive at the palace; she’s already anticipating even more of a ruckus when the others come from Tantal and Leftheria. Mythra is probably gonna loudly offer her unsolicited judgment, and Zeke might end up butting heads with Aegaeon over the choice of decor. 

All in all, she wouldn’t be surprised if half of Alrest’s population is invited. 

Nia glances sidelong to Mòrag and Brighid. They seem completely unconcerned, like they stand in the eye of a hurricane. It’s questionable whether they’re even paying attention to what’s going on around them or not, sitting together at a little white table Aegaeon had set out for them and quietly talking to each other.

“Gotta say, this didn’t really strike me as your kinda venue,” Nia says, leaning back in her seat. “You two never struck me as the gaudy types.” 

“Gaudy?” Mòrag repeats, one brow raised. 

“Y’know. Flashy. Frilly. Showy. Bloody obnoxious.” 

“You should tell Aegaeon that. He _is_ in charge of the planning, after all,” Brighid says. Nia had been expecting her to take offense at being called gaudy, but she isn’t bothered at all. What gives? Maybe Nia should try calling her a clown instead, see if that gets a reaction out of her. 

Nia cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of Dromarch weaving around people, a tray of wine bottles impeccably balanced on his head. He was more than happy to jump in and help out, and now it looks like Aegaeon thinks he’s his new best friend. Great. 

Nothing against Aegaeon! He’s… an upstanding fellow. Awkward, but intense. Maybe he got that from Mòrag. 

Speak of the devil— Aegaeon appears in front of them, hands clasped together. 

“Mòrag, Brighid. The caterers will be arriving soon for the rehearsal. Everything is going as smooth as can be.” 

“Good to hear,” Mòrag says. 

Then he’s gone, back in the midst of the chaos. Someone’s carting in a large stone sculpture that looks suspiciously like a Nopon. Either that, or Aegaeon decided to pay homage to Boreas for some reason. 

Nia wrinkles her nose. “Seriously, though. Didn’t you tell me you wanted to keep the whole—“ She waves a hand in the air. “—relationship thing incognito? This is like, the complete opposite of that. I always figured you two would go sign some papers to get married and call it a day.”

“Ah. Brighid and I are already married.”

“—Wait, what.”

“What were you saying about our lack of discretion, now?” Brighid says, hiding her smile behind her hand. “If you really must know, yes. Lady Mòrag and I signed our marriage certificate years ago. We had it done in complete privacy. She’s allowed to officiate such things, you know, as Special Inquisitor. Only His Majesty was aware.”

Nia squints at both of them. “Then what the hell is all this for?!” 

“Aegaeon misheard us,” Mòrag calmly says. “It seems he had always dreamt of organizing a grand wedding.” 

“We’re just letting him have his fun.” 

“It’s an opportune chance to renew our vows, anyway. Isn’t that right, Brighid?”

Nia isn’t sure if she should keep squinting, or yell at them, or get up and leave. No wait, she can’t leave, because Dromarch is having a blast helping out with the wedding. Aegaeon’s probably going to put him in charge of bouquets and flower arranging at this rate. It's actually sort of nice, seeing everyone so busy and excited— even if Mòrag and Brighid are unintentionally misleading people, this at least gives them something to look forward to.

Oh, Mòrag and Brighid are kissing each other now. So much for that veneer of public appearances. With a loud, pointedly annoyed sigh, Nia hops up on her feet and stalks off. She might as well help out with the party while she’s here.


End file.
